chapter
12 "There's a storm coming in... -I know."
Thursday evening in the House Of Lily and there's not an awful lot happening. I am
reduced to checking the TV programme: "CSI" is on. Ah but will it be
"CSI" or its "CSI Miami" spin-of? (this one's set in Miami)
Actually, I understand they also have a "CSI New York" now (I believe
it's set in New York) what next, one wonders? "CSI Seattle"?
"CSI Balbriggan"? "CSI Craggy Island"? This is clearly
getting out of hand, talk about poverty of imagination and decline in
programming, they're having a laugh! If anything, this is a perfect way of
making a bollix out of what once was a great series, they clearly think we swam
up the Liffey if they imagine we'll lap it all up! Seriouslythough, I sometimes
despair, I sometimes howl with frustration (I don't really, but hey). In the
"whatever happened to the ways of old" series, current TV guidelines
couldn't be any clearer, they're here for all to see and go something like
this:
Recycle - Rehash - Remake. Job's a good one.
Any day of the week, you can the box switch on and are guaranteed to come across any if not all of these: "The Simpsons", "Friends", "Scrubs", "Sex And The City", "Frasier", "Holby City". "Fair City" too. Oh, and also "Home And Away" "Neighbours" "Emmerdale" "Eastenders" "Doctor Who" "Faulty Towers" "My Name Is Earl" "Cosby" "Countdown" "Men And Motors" "The 6 O'Clock News" "The National Weather" "This Programme Is Sponsored By" "The National Lottery" "But First A Word From Our Sponsors" -and another classic episode of "Father Ted". Yikes! This is death by a thousand advertising cuts! If you don't know them all by heart by now, chances are you must be pretty thick. Correction: pretty thick, or a touch senile. Not that I wish to imply that TV scheduling, especially during daytime, is lovingly assembled with our forgetful senior citizens as prime target but.
It's getting lame though. It's all a bit shite, frankly. It's tiresome and makes you feel you're in some kind of cathodic Groundhog Day where every day's entertainment is the same as yesterday's :-((.
Recycle - Rehash - Remake. Job's a good one.
Any day of the week, you can the box switch on and are guaranteed to come across any if not all of these: "The Simpsons", "Friends", "Scrubs", "Sex And The City", "Frasier", "Holby City". "Fair City" too. Oh, and also "Home And Away" "Neighbours" "Emmerdale" "Eastenders" "Doctor Who" "Faulty Towers" "My Name Is Earl" "Cosby" "Countdown" "Men And Motors" "The 6 O'Clock News" "The National Weather" "This Programme Is Sponsored By" "The National Lottery" "But First A Word From Our Sponsors" -and another classic episode of "Father Ted". Yikes! This is death by a thousand advertising cuts! If you don't know them all by heart by now, chances are you must be pretty thick. Correction: pretty thick, or a touch senile. Not that I wish to imply that TV scheduling, especially during daytime, is lovingly assembled with our forgetful senior citizens as prime target but.
It's getting lame though. It's all a bit shite, frankly. It's tiresome and makes you feel you're in some kind of cathodic Groundhog Day where every day's entertainment is the same as yesterday's :-((.
Not that I can pick on that in my own show, and here's the rub. I couldn't possibly be giving out about my fellow entertainers as it'd probably sound weird -well, anything you do in life is bound to rub someone, somewhere, the wrong way up but that's probably a story for another day. Sure I couldn't, as it would feel... schizophrenic somehow. I could well see people calling me a hypocrit since I belong to the media circus myself and the media criticising itself oh no, we can't be having that can we? That'd do people's bonces in, they don't have truck with that. Seen from a distance (that will be the audience's point of view) any caste looks homogenous (and that will be "the meejah").
In my experience, our beloved Listeners Out There are not exactly known for showing an awful lot of compassion and understanding when it comes to appreciate broadcasters' misgivings. Seeing us as a privileged class (never mind me hunting for gigs high and low), they can't wait for a presenter to make a right bollix of themselves on air! And when this happens -statistically, every now and then- they demand action replay! Naturally outraged, they post it on YouTube, they write-to-the-editor to complain, they re-enact the scene down the pub on the Friday night -in a word, they make a right song and dance about it! What they're doing, in fact, is re-appropriate it ...and this, even when the story has grown more legs than a caterpillar.
Here's
an example: ask anyone about Geldof and what he said during Live Aid, they'll
all tell you: "He shouted "Give us your focken money" and
then he banged the table, oh yes I remember it well!" ...Except he
never said these words. He never did.
Audiences
are sadistic by definition and don't we know it, once we find ourselves on the
other side... True that, audiences are mad for any kind of payback and we're
the target to get naturally shot at. So, were I to candidly air out my
dissatisfaction with brain-parking programming, I have a rough feeling what
their reaction might sound like... I can't exactly imagine them being much
impressed. They'd accuse me of double standards for sure, when we all know I'm
only wheeled on to the show to recycle jokes. (Here's a quick one: How many
J-Los does it take to change a light-bulb? One. One J-Lo to hold the bulb while
the world revolves around her.)
I'd better walk on eggs and keep my thoughts on that subject to myself, so.
Moreover, it may not be the best of ideas in term of career prospects: We don't want to be burning our bridges, do we? Or at least... not before we've had a chance to cross them first LOL! Butseriouslythough, it doesn't pay to open your big mouth and risk antagonising potential colleagues or employers, that's common sense d'uh. It ain't worth it, producers are like posties, waiters, car mechanics, plumbers, Garda, the Tax Office or hairdressers... What do these guys have in common? The answer is: they're not folks you'd want to rub the wrong way up. Cos' that's the thing with modern technology, nothing ever gets forgotten anymore, there's always a record of what you may have said or done ten years down the line lying somewhere, be it a naive holiday snap on your Facebook page or an innocent thirty-minute anti-semitic sexist drunken rant by Mel Gibson. These unguarded moments have a knack for coming back to bite you in the arse, so why dig a hole for yourself! (...Especially when there's plenty others glad to do it for you.) So no no no, can't be taking that risk, can't be biting the hand that feeds. Besides, it's not my brief. My brief's to entertain and not to add aggro.
...Still think TV's gone shite though.
Time, as it usually tends to do, passes.
There, it's passed.
In the end I just pick up the remote and zap around idly, brain firmly turned off for maximum enjoyment. Hello hello, what's this hullabaloo? All manners of furniture exploding, guns with mad red laser beams, cheesy synthesiser music and lethal neon lights, huh oh, this has to be some 80s flick or...
"If you want to live, come with me!"
I've come across "Terminator".
"Terminator"! I must admit I enjoyed it ...after a fashion. Only the first four or five times it was on. It's proper trash, serious brain-parking. Take the dialogue, what's not to like there? "Oh, come on, do I look like the mother of the future?", "I vill be bock", "Hey man, you've got a serious attitude problem", "Giff me your non homo-erotic leafer jacket, trousers and your boots", "That son of a bitch took my pants!", "Gott im Himmel! I suttenly got a haircut in ze mittle of a scene but noboty vill ever notice" oh well, why not...
I'd better walk on eggs and keep my thoughts on that subject to myself, so.
Moreover, it may not be the best of ideas in term of career prospects: We don't want to be burning our bridges, do we? Or at least... not before we've had a chance to cross them first LOL! Butseriouslythough, it doesn't pay to open your big mouth and risk antagonising potential colleagues or employers, that's common sense d'uh. It ain't worth it, producers are like posties, waiters, car mechanics, plumbers, Garda, the Tax Office or hairdressers... What do these guys have in common? The answer is: they're not folks you'd want to rub the wrong way up. Cos' that's the thing with modern technology, nothing ever gets forgotten anymore, there's always a record of what you may have said or done ten years down the line lying somewhere, be it a naive holiday snap on your Facebook page or an innocent thirty-minute anti-semitic sexist drunken rant by Mel Gibson. These unguarded moments have a knack for coming back to bite you in the arse, so why dig a hole for yourself! (...Especially when there's plenty others glad to do it for you.) So no no no, can't be taking that risk, can't be biting the hand that feeds. Besides, it's not my brief. My brief's to entertain and not to add aggro.
...Still think TV's gone shite though.
Time, as it usually tends to do, passes.
There, it's passed.
In the end I just pick up the remote and zap around idly, brain firmly turned off for maximum enjoyment. Hello hello, what's this hullabaloo? All manners of furniture exploding, guns with mad red laser beams, cheesy synthesiser music and lethal neon lights, huh oh, this has to be some 80s flick or...
"If you want to live, come with me!"
I've come across "Terminator".
"Terminator"! I must admit I enjoyed it ...after a fashion. Only the first four or five times it was on. It's proper trash, serious brain-parking. Take the dialogue, what's not to like there? "Oh, come on, do I look like the mother of the future?", "I vill be bock", "Hey man, you've got a serious attitude problem", "Giff me your non homo-erotic leafer jacket, trousers and your boots", "That son of a bitch took my pants!", "Gott im Himmel! I suttenly got a haircut in ze mittle of a scene but noboty vill ever notice" oh well, why not...
It's Sarah Connor really, she's the one who clinches it for me and not your monolith, now that's for sure! Your man was once described as a "a mountain of peanuts trapped in a giant condom" or something. Sounds about right, if you ask me. Nah, it's got to be good-time girlie Sarah Connor who I feel for, good old Sarah... She your standard Friday nite hopeful, complete with white "fuck me boots", glass of Frog's Legs, wide baffled eyes and an epic perm that spells "ozone destroyer". Check her outfit, just check it out, it's wicked stuff and no mistake, you can almost smell the hairspray from the comfort of your sofa! Ah yes, Sarah... Would never hurt a fly would she, is only after minding her own business and she ends up kicking your man's shiny metal arse all over the middle of next week! Now that's my girl, an example to us all surely! True that, there's got to be a lesson somewhere... Once a babe lost in the woods of cheesy niteclubs, eventually a survivor tougher than a
As it happens, my favourite part of "Terminator" is its last scene: its very last lines of dialogue. There's an exchange between two characters I can never get enough of. Approximate screentime? less than ten seconds. Here's how it goes: Our Sarah, now heavy with the future messiah, is on her way to the desert mountains yonder; she pulls over at some rickety service station for gas and triple chocolate cornettos. Out of his shack comes your traditional tobacco chewing, denim dungarees wearing, greasy hand cloth wiping old fogy who proceeds to fill her up -her pick-up that is, not our Sarah. Probably spits on the dirt for good measure. He looks at the sky, as thunder is heard courtesy of the sound effect department, and goes:
"There's a storm coming in."
Yikes! Hold the press!! What-happens-next??
-"I know." replies our Sarah after a -er- pregnant pause and then she pulls away. Drives off to confront the incoming future and shit. "The End".
Like totally ominous and massively prophetic. Symbolic as hell. Potent in its simplicity. Positively inviting comments (and at least two sequels at the time of writing). I've always loved that bit me, I think it rocks. "I know." It always gets to me when she goes "I know", all super calm and yet dead hard with knowledge and resolution, go Sarah go! You get tooled up for that fecking storm, gurrrl! I could almost punch the air in front of my little screen.
But then "The Terminator"'s not what I need right now; oh no, it's not what touchy-feely I had in mind... All that violence, it doesn't push my button, it's not for me. Talk of a target audience... (More shooting ensues. More phallic guns are fired off, left right centre. Crash! Burn! Decapitate and speak in borrowed voice!) Hard as I try, I just can't warm to it tonight, the feeling's not there. Wham, bam, fruit cart in sight as a car chase gets underway; glass structures are rightfully exploded and medium sized country oil reserves are dutifully wasted to no avail. I don't feel it, it doesn't do it for me. Bang and more bang, can we get to the Sarah bit please? I'm bored. There's no latitude here, no room for daydreaming. (Crash wallop etc. Exit the android, rise the robot.) I am starting to yawn big time. Deffo wrong viewing choice, it's not exactly choc box out / lights dimmed / sofa sprawl material is it? In a word, it's not "Untamed Heart". "Untamed Heart"!! Now there's a proper scream! Now that's what I call a classic! This here is just boy's stuff. "Boy stuff" or "bloke stuff" if we want to be like -er- all respectful of and non-offensive towards these sensitive creatures, seeing how easily vexed they get.
Boy stuff it is then.
But what exactly is "boy stuff"?
This is a good question and I congratulate myself on asking it. Boy stuff eh, let's see...
I suppose, to put it bluntly, it'd have to be defined as subtlety in motion. Subtlety in motion as in: you think you've spotted a hint of subtlety? There, it's already gone (LOL!!). Speaking from experience, boy stuff is what our partners have us sit through whenever we foolishly acquiesce to let them choose on our big "night out". It is simple, really: It is a sollipsistic exercise in male re-affirming identity that has no room for expressions of weakness let alone self-doubt. No wonder we feel excluded.
A list
of its customary features would be easy to draw up. It would have to start with
big guns, big guns of the kind society precisely sought out to eradicate as it
evolved from its lawless beginnings and strove to replace self-justice with the
rule of Law. Big guns for one, so. What else? Fast cars for sure. Fast cars and
faster cars (for mad racing to occur, that is); scantily clad babes; door
bursting fights; window bursting fights; table crashing fights; bigger guns.
Talking of chases, the wider the range of vehicles involved the better, be them
on wheels, on air, on water -It's the whole point of fantasy, you need to
totally overdo it when in real life "some people" (cough cough) get
flagged down for doing a measly 32 mph in a residential area (but moving on
swiftly)... Big guns, I was saying; grumpy old men of the rugged stern-but-fair
type; totally unexpected traitors (word in your ear: it's always the fat one in
the group); easily recognisable baddies (this time
the give-away resides in the sexual ambiguity and / or English accent); smoking
like it's going out of fashion; cliff-hangers every fifteen minutes; fruit
carts being wheeled across busy roads with predictable consequences, glass
panes in tow and ruined local tradesmen, hilariously shaking their fist,
propping up the rear. But that's not all... Watering holes offering drinks at
prices that correspond exactly to the protagonist's petty cash; rooms whose
lights presumably switch themselves off after their occupants have left;
perfect parking space spots (and no parking meters either). More big guns. Lots
of shouting ("may contain profane language -rated PG") but never of a blatantly racist, offensive nature so that's
OK; self-aggrandising statements; sweat stained vests (yes Mr. Willis, looking
at you); leather shorts (and you, Mr. Schwarzenegger); furrowed brows, clenched
jaws and curt replies. Now these are important: they are symptoms of
male activity, and so need to be codified. It's just like when men get down to
do some work, hold the front page, they have to erect a warning sign ...and
that would be "Men At Work". So grimaces
and sweat, swearwords and grins are in order, alongside vests, gins, torsos and
more shoot-outs, eardrum busting soundtrack and explosions. Pyrotechnics,
pissing contests, alcoholic intoxication, poor diets, driving under the
influence and withtout a seat-belt on, poor hygiene, lack of hair conditioner,
exhaust fumes, doors slammed ...but
mostly big guns.
None of this appeals to me. It's not for me, and let alone in my current mood ("zzzzip!" goes another severed limb on the box, "yawwwn" goes its viewer). Tonight it's only me, the dust bunnies under the bed and a useless TV. I feel restless and unfulfilled, in need of a bad case of TLC. Tyres may screech and doors get blown off to kingdom come, I can't be arsed. "Click!", "Terminator" gets terminated.
Isnt' it funny though how things have a tendency to make you crave their opposite? Cos' this is exactly what's taking place: Now he's done it. Yep he's done it, the teutonic git's put me right in the mood ...in the mood for a dash of the old weepy, that is. A saccharine fix, that's what's required. Forget about ballsy women with warrior wombs, I could do with some "approved for all audiences" instead! I hear enough macho bravado all day not to want to sit through more of it at night. It's getting lame now, after a while their lines all sound the same.
Blokes
go "Vietnam... We lost a lot of good men out there...", "Ah
don't mind me, it's me old sports injury playing up", "'Think you
could go and make us a cuppa, love?", "The market's robust, this
one's a banker!", "Just go! I'll buy you some time!", "It's
just a flesh wound", "Ten successive Goldman and Sachs Triple A
ratings can't be wrong", "Who said I was afraid?", "Look
here! This time without a net!", "Nothing ventured, nothing gained
son", "Be a doll and go fetch my paper" etc.
Sometimes,
one hears a genuine pearl. Whether this one's genuine or apocryphal I'll never
know:
-Some
Brit officer supposedly remarked to his superior during a battle: "By Jove
Sir, I appear to have lost a leg!"
-His
superior (an admiral or something): "By Jove, and so you have, man."
Nah,
tonight I can't have any of that; I'm in a funny mood, surely everybody's
allowed once in a while... 'Can't be saving the world every day, can we!
Tonight I need a break from these loudspeaker busters, machinegun one-liners
and other gratuitous shower scenes. Let's leave the toys to their boys for a
change... "And next we move on to this shocking two-car Gardai chase in
progress on the M50. JoAnne Cantwell aboard our ChopperMobile, what can you
tell us about the chase? Any pellets exchanged yet? Is the fugitive on the tractor showing any sign of surrendering? Huh? ...Is
there at least a fruit-cart in the vicinity?"
...Would could be arsed with that?
Weepies -A Short Guide To.
Now
what's needed to make a good weepie is more my thing. As in: What would be the
antidote to "Terminator"? Since it doesn't push my buttons, what
does? Well, the tried and tested always comes up with the goods. Take for
example the oldest visual trick in the book: the gelatine spread on the lens.
Simples! Now here's an instant relaxant if I know one, a welcome rest from the
ever sharper definitions TV sets impose upon us (a view shared by presenters
themselves from what I hear: with this incoming high definition format thingy,
any wrinkle, mole or rogue hair stands out! Ouch!). What we want here is a
break from the usual loud and garish colours that hurt your eyes worse than a
Penney's summer top, let's have some pastel shades for a change! Ever heard of
harmonies, low contrast and subtle lighting? That's right Mr. Schwarzenegger,
'knew you didn't!
There
is a simple tip for serious detox and it's not even technical. It's so simple
it's overlooked and it consists of...
slowing
- everything - down.
That's
right, slowing everything down. Chillax, we're not always on coke! (Takes a
long drag, exhales.) That's is all it takes, and it would mean making a stand
against this mad editing frenzy that's affecting modern movies. Serious. Think
about it: Where was the last time you saw a movie shot that lasted more than
five seconds? This shit's getting out of hand! Chop chop! Scene one, scene two!
Hurry, hurry, cut to the ad break! Ah sure, it may be appropriate when you're
watching a rock video while hitting the treadmill down the gym ...but it sure
ain't when you've retreated to the smug comfort of your digs afterwards and are
recuperating -Don't wanna be chasing after no seizure, me! Maybe it's a
question of timing. Maybe that's what it boils down to. Some things are not
meant to work non-stop, they need to be enjoyed at special times during the
day, I'm thinking types of music here or types of dope ...or even films for
that matter.
No,
what I'd fancy right
now would be some totally gratuitous travelling shot down a never-ending
Caribbean beach, something like that. You can't go wrong here, you know the
score already: blue sky, green sea, no prefab hotel thank you very much,
wind through the hair, sand through fingers, palm trees and level 50 sunscreen
-the works. The beach is the perfect seductive place in its own right, but it's
also a haunting one. Neither the sea nor the landmass, neither the ground nor
the sky, it is a zone of transition and happenings... it holds special appeal.
The beach is the spot aliens choose to stage first contact with our Jodie in,
er, "Contact"; the beach is the workplace for strapping young David
Charvet in his red speedos in "Baywatch" -in short, the beach is the
ultimate guilty pleasure for any city dweller. Now add some cheesy sax to the
equation and you have yourself a gold-plated banker -the more gooey, the more
deadly (oh if JohnnyRay heard me!!). Butseriouslythough, any opening credit
that announces the likes of The Cranberries, Texas, No Doubt or Annie Lennox on
the soundtrack is sending a strong message: this is going to be quality! You
know you're in for a real treat! (Closes yes, visualises...)
Lost
to a frenzy of desperate groping, Siobhan tore at Miguel's threadbare shirt and
divested him of his last garment: today was the day! She had to have him! Their
intertwined bodies rolled around helplessly in the dirt, crushing small shelled
animals and scaring seagulls away. They just about avoided a landmine. Blood
streaked and mud stained, Miguel's muscular torso glowed in the dying day's
last amber rays and his piercing eyes fixed her with an intensity almost too
torrid to bear. At last! "Come!" growled he "...and let me take
you in my fishing boat!" (Kenny
G kicks off in the background.)
Mind
you, why not go for the overkill and rattle them off while we're at it... why
not go the whole hog. Let's see... Let's throw sunsets into the mix, sunsets
and falling stars (not at the same time though). Let's have our big hunk set
out to pick medicinal wildflowers in the mountain for his fever stricken old
Ma. Let's introduce an orphan little girl -she could be blind, she could be
living on a prairie- who seeks refuge in her diary. We'll have no bone-crushing
horses charging up and down frothing at the mouth but some nice non-defecating
ponies instead. Will anyone fall off them? Maybe the sad little girl's also
lost her parents, maybe it was a period rich in strife and trouble. Then she
encounters your man disguised in peasant clothes; she faints; he fights off
unwashed looking drifters as they make an attempt on her virtue. Sue-Maria has
no choice but to marry evil duke Hermann von Fritz. A
dramatic thunderstorm surprises the lovebirds on the moors, with lashing rain
making a mockery of Tony Bandera's tight white shirt. Somebody, meanwhile, is
dying of compulsion somewhere and a Gipsy soothsayer issues a prophetic
warning. As Gabriello repairs home to his bedridden Ma, Isabellina is
abducted by the perfidious Duke and his sinisterious henchmen. It's a miracle!
She miraculously escapes the clutches of the aforementioned decadent aristocrat
and takes refuge in a nunnery. Alas, Dario can't get the hang of manual gears
and plunges into a ravine. Our heroine's bessie sends her a consoling email of
a LolCat. Black Plague strikes and coked-up Wasps play casino banking with the
market -Au pair Heidi loses her position as a result. Is everything lost? Will
the faithful dog make it back home in time to revive his master? Hospital
records finally reveal the truth about the orphan's identity. Archbishop
o'Grady (or is it Archduke Montelivo?) gives his blessing on his death bed and
a hundred fireworks are let off in celebration, killing half-a-dozen birds in
the process. The faithful dog is run over by evil robber baron McBride's
Dammler. In a stunning twist, the Gipsy woman chooses this moment to reappear
and cast a curse upon him and his poxy derivatives. Gaby and Isa meet up again
in the same cave as they independently take shelter from these damn elements
don't make me laugh about global warming. Will Leona come to her senses or will
she renounce her throne / seat at the Board of Directors just to consume her
passion with the hardy fisherman / rugged gameskeeper / flamboyant interior
designer (no, cross the last one out)? All will be revealed shortly!
Meanwhile,
Harvey Keitel credibly takes piano lessons, doves fly off in the sky outside
the shooting season, secret passages reveal dark family secrets, identities get
mixed up with hilarious consequences, candles burn down to mark the passing of
time, Mathew McConaughey works up a sweat and you know it's only a matter of
time, quicksand is casually mentioned as our heroes embark on a country trek,
batty old nannies gasp at some unexplained resemblance, best-gay-friend solemnly
swears he won't interfere, Alicia Silverstone gets behind the wheel, diaries
drop out of lockers, harsh words are being exchanged in the heat of the moment
and nobody wants to back down, cut to a totally necessary ten minute close-up
of George Clooney shaving topless. Shannen Doherty turns out not to be such a
bad egg after all and graciously steps aside to let Molly Ringwald screw Rob
Lowe's brains out. Why not open a nice bottle of white wine? I go get myself
one.
Of course, the choice of drink itself is revealing: "us" and "them" don't drink alike. In fact, not only do men and women differ in their weapon of choice, they don't even drink it the same way -Just imagine G. downing pints in a pub... Can't see that happening! Nah, such behaviour is hardly lady-like, it's just not on. Anyway she wouldn't go for beer, white wine's what we tend to go for. White wine or cocktails, if possible. ...Alcopops, if desperate.
Men
naturally act different. Their very approach is weird: for one thing they don't
seem to have got the hang of this social drinking thing. They don't seem to
enjoy it -they just want to get rubbered. I guess filmstars have a lot to
answer for, cue up the roll of the usual die-hards: your Russel Crowes, Richard
Burtons, Richard Harrises, Oliver Reeds and other Errol Flynns. Do blokes
really aspire to look like them? ... I guess they do. Let me call on every bar
scene under the sun. Goes something like this: Fellow arrives in town,
naturally gets down to nearest saloon. The following dialogue takes place:
Grinning unshaved native: "Well well well... who have we got ourselves tonight!" (circles around your man, checks his butt in a totally non homoerotic way) "Ye don't look like you hail from around these parts stranger..." (slams his fist on the bar, beckons the barman over) "See me, I can polish a whole shot of tequila no bother! And another one. And another one. See? Piece of piss! Think you can match me stranger? Huh? Think you can?"
Grinning unshaved native: "Well well well... who have we got ourselves tonight!" (circles around your man, checks his butt in a totally non homoerotic way) "Ye don't look like you hail from around these parts stranger..." (slams his fist on the bar, beckons the barman over) "See me, I can polish a whole shot of tequila no bother! And another one. And another one. See? Piece of piss! Think you can match me stranger? Huh? Think you can?"
Your
man continue to nurse his pint in silence.
Unshaved
native: "Now look here for my next trick, Mister: no hands! See? Bet
you can't do that eh... no hands!" Drains his glass. Falls head first
onto the spittoon. No teeth!
-but enough about "The Quiet Man".
-but enough about "The Quiet Man".
I am now gone. I get into fantasy mode and, smoke loops rising over the bed, replay the auld classics in my head, totally indulging myself for the sheer fun of it. Cheesy's s state of mind. Sprawled out stoked up, I go on a journey... a journey of guilty pleasures. Ah yes, let's hail the art of cringe...
The Art Of Cringe!
Let's start with a killer scene, for instance the one with
shitloads of meaningful silence inbetween lines yeah, the one where
it-almost-comes to-the-boil-but-not-quite-does. It's an absolute given in every
self-respecting cringefest and goes like this: Your man
and your woman ogle each other up silly yet won't own up, they dare not
dare. Instead the two blushing eejits desperately blather on about bollix even
a footy fan would suss out as total double entendre. Now that's what I'm
talking about, that's proper cheese! It is mandatory and usually plonked
roundabout midfilm so as to provide crucial pointers to what's what to come
(these two will get it on, d'uh). It is easy to spot: That will be the moment
your toes start to curl at the same rate your heart starts to race. Will they,
won't they? Of course they won't (just now), they're just engaged in tickling
the point of no return something savage -Approved! See, to me this set piece is
just about the opposite of a Bruce Willis / Schwarzenegger shoot-out. It's not
tedious in its repetition -when you've seen a tank take a flying jump at a
helicopter out of a burning skyscraper you've seen them all-, it's not easily
forgotten, it's on the countrary one of these things that make cinema fab: It winds
up, pulls out, delights, infuriates, lays markers, cops out, fobs off,
signposts, entices, teases, winks hard, makes no pretence, complies, follows,
paves the way, baffles, pulls the other leg, reaches for the kleenex -and
carries on its merry way cheekier than a sunbather with her g-string stuck up
her crack.
Quick
confession here. "Some people" (cough cough) have been known to have
a go at their telly at this juncture -Surely I'm not the only one?
Seriouslythough, when this generic scene comes up, I just can't help myself. I
have to tell them frank: "Have you no eyes, ya big turnip? Haven't you
heard what she's just said?? Kiss her, stupid, kiss her! Kiss her and don't let
her out of your sight!" But of course
a) he won't do so (kiss her, that is)
and b) half the time, he does precisely that (let her out of his sight, the chump).
...Fellows never listen to me.
a) he won't do so (kiss her, that is)
and b) half the time, he does precisely that (let her out of his sight, the chump).
...Fellows never listen to me.
"I miss you more than I knew"
Let's face it: Pretty much like the Nolan sisters, I'm in the mood. The difference being, in the mood for a right auld weepie.
"Weepies, In Defence Of" (or another essay made up on the fly by Lily Monaghan). Warning: may contain gross exaggerations, logical non secateurs, and even complete misinterpretations -but then, where would the fun be without these. If there's one thing Da's ever taught me, it's to never hold back when coming up with a theory. You might as well make it entertaining, right? Make it proper outrageous, don't be afraid to assert statements as facts, and provide your audience with a tale taller than Niall Quinn standing next to Kylie. Nobody, including yourself, will remember it five days down the line, so. Theories is what makes life grand, theories is what enlivens any day. Theories, rather than facts. And so -putting my thinking cap on- I must address the question that was somehow overlooked in that "Terminator" carry-on... Namely, what exactly defines a weepie? After all, these old chestnuts have been around for yokes! Ever since your man went all soft in the head and grabbed himself a luth, generations upon generations have flocked to the cloying tones /tunes of pimply youth laments. Sure, the medium may have evolved from papyrus to CD / romances to power ballads, its original intentions remain and the message stays the same ergo this serious question: Quid, bitches? (= What's it all about then?) Enduring, universal, this genre clearly boasts some mileage, so isn't it time to reappraise or simply praise it? Huh? Let's ask ourselves -and I'll answer me own question shortly-: Why does it matter so much? What purpose does it serve? And at the end of the day, are weepies salutary catharsis or embarrassing self-pity?
I lick my imaginary pencil and go to work.
It's quite simple really, although I'd say we first need establish a preliminary distinction in order to get clear about what we're talking about. There are two kinds of weepies -or "romances", as egg-heads who pretend not to read / watch / listen to them would say- and these will be:
The happy ending ones,
...and the not so happy ending ones.
So far so simple. Here we have a clear divide, based on an almost basic opposition. Now and this must be made clear right away, both options are valid in their own right, there ain't no right and wrong here; all that matters is what mood one finds herself in on the night. Meaning: Do you fancy some transfer of affection or would you rather wallow in the grip of self-pity? Do you want to aspire to the idea(l) of love and its uplifting boost, or you can't help scratching at your own scabs and want to pull on the already strained heart strings? The choice is yours, and there's plenty filums about to cater to either fancy -Now fill your boots!
Let's start sunny side up.
In the blue corner, we have... well let's see, mainly comedies. Innocent stuff like “Sleepless In Seattle”, “While You Were Sleeping” or "When Harry Met Sally". That is to say Meg Ryan territory. Meg Ryan and all-conquering J-Lo, kooky Sandra Bullock, wacky Steve Martin. Regulars also include the likes of Kathleen Turner Lindsay Lohan Sarah Jessica Parker Hughie Grant Richard Curtis Barbra Cartland Maeve Binchy Marian Keyes Colin Filth Freddy Prinze Malcolm McDowell (??) and so on. Most of these movies are comedies, but a few musicals also fit the niche nicely, musical such as "Dirty Sleazy Sexy Dancing", "Mamma Mia" or "Grease". Then it's back to stuff like "Ten Things I Hate About You", "She's All That", "Clueless" / "Emma", "Sense And Sensibility", "Room With A View", "The Truth About Cats And Dogs" / "Roxanne" -hold it there: "Roxanne"! Now this one's a deceptive case in fact. There's more to it than meets the eye, provided you bear in mind what it's adapted from... That's right, "Cyrano de Bergerac", one of the great weepies of all time. This here version makes no bones about totally ignoring the original ending and that's just as well, they go for the "And they lived happily ever after", lethal idea aaah.... (Just watch for their offspring though.)
What else have we got in the happy category? ...
"Mermaids" I dig big time, "While You Were Sleeping", "Evelyn" (did I dream, or doesn't Gaybo the man himself make a cameo?), "Children Of A Lesser God", "Pretty Woman" of course, "Maid In Manhattan", "The Wedding Planner", supersultry "Out Of Sight", ""Pretty In Pink" (aka "Molly Sells Out" -too fecking right!), "Scrooge", "Shall We Dance (Or Just Gape At Richard Gere)?", "Sleeping With The Enemy", Shakespeare In Love" (I think...? it's been some time since I saw it), "The Graduate" (talk about open endings!), "Parenthood", "Shirley Valentine", "Love Actually", not "Four Weddings And A Funeral" cos' it's shite, "As Good As It Gets", "Pay It Forward" (Helen Hunt again), "On A Golden Pond", "Lantana", "The Little House On The Prairie", "Northern Exposure" (kindof), "Sex And The City", "Moonlighting", "Cheers", "Frasier", "Crash" (to a certain degree), ye olde "Four Daughters Of Dr. March", "The Princess Diaries" featuring Anne Hathaway's cutetastic nose, "Babel" (another one for the "kindof" label), "Three Colours Red", "Trust", cutie "Waitress", "Chungkin Express" (why oh why do I never meet Gardai like that?), "Sex Lies And Videotapes", "Wings Of Desire", "Run Lola Run", etc. etc. etc..
Oh and "It's A Wonderful Life".
Bring them all on, says I.
Then we have the other category. Their message in short: "Ouch".
In this red corner we have the other case scenario, the one in which toasts most certainly never land on their unbuttered side nor cats on their legs (the poor things only break their jaws). This is the stuff of tragedies, be they of the sentimental or social kind.
Unrequited crushes impossible loves selfless sacrifices tragic deaths fatal mistakes secret addictions class conflicts incurable diseases unwanted pregnancies follies of war marital betrayals estranged families faces like slapped arses Stephen Rae huge noses maths teachers with facial scars impotent husbands corsets rain on your wedding day religious edicts shame on the whole family and more of the same. ...Violins and hubris. The (water)works.
Quite a few gay subplots here interestingly, as if that lot could only belong to the tragic section. In fact, I seem to remember it was a bit of an unwritten law for evillesbians to commit suicide at the end of every film one was featured in (during which they would duly attempt to corrupt the virginal heroine). (And fail.)
Anyway, plenty ‘titles spring up to mind:
"Against All Odds", "Ghost", "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon", "Streets Of Philadelphia", "Death In Venice", "Leaving Las Vegas", "A Very Long Engagement" (could somehow belong to the other category, though), "Truly Madly Deeply", the classic of classics "Romeo And Juliet", "Brokeback Mountain", "Magnolia" (...kindof), "The Umbrellas Of Cherbourg", "The Great Gatsby", "The Go-Between", "Atonement", "Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence", "Solaris" (open to discussion, this one: I'm not entirely sure I "got" the ending), "Cyrano de Bergerac", "Happy Together" (Gay Chinese couple travel to Argentina. Break up. The end.), "Edward Scissorhands", "Breaking The Waves" (featuring what is possibly the most compelling performance by an actress ever), "Forever Young", "Lost In Translation", "My Own Private Idaho", "Running On Empty" (River Phoenix!!), "Captain Corelli's Mandolin", "The End Of The Affair", the inevitable "Brief Encounter".
Now I'm sucking Diesel! No sweat trying to conjure up titles, the buggers keep coming in! And a certain person I know would add: "Pretty much like the Spice Girls in a Concorde, they're flying thick and fast!" Groan...
What about "The English Patient", "Titanic", "Out Of Africa", "The Bridges Of Madison County", "Somewhere In Time", "Becoming Jane", "Three Colours Blue" (kindof), "In The Mood For Love" (forsure), "Paris Texas", "Far From Heaven" (Poor old Julianne eh... Just how unlucky can one be! Why, she gets it in the neck about as often as Laura Linney so she does!), "Mystic River", "Amores Perros", "Talk To Her", "All About My Mother", "The Flower Of My Secret", "21 Grams", "The Kiss Of The Spider Woman" (William Hurt, lethal actor -didn't get the career he deserved), "The Son's Room", "Giant", "Rebel Without A Cause, James Dean Without The Infamy Of Ever Growing Old", "Love Actually", "American Beauty", still not "Four Weddings And A Funeral" because it's shite, "The French Lieutenant's Woman", "Doctor Zhivago", "The Last Tycoon" (DeNiro's haunting wail at the end), "The Woman Next Door", and so on and so forth.
The last episode of "Northern Exposure". The harrowing filum version of "Twin Peaks" (ooh, didn't enjoy that one bit!).
Going over these lists, one obvious remark springs to mind.
Funny that, but there seems to be far more weepies of the sad kind! It's deffo "Tears" not "Terms Of Endearment" that rule! Now obviously, some might say that top-of-my-head is anything but scientific as far as study methods go -yes, yes I know- but to be perfectly frank, I could care less about the validity of my methodology OK? In fact, that I should arrive at these possibly wrong conclusions is in itself interesting (yous 'still with me?): Let's ask ourselves why is that so, why should it be that weepies of the dramatic kind appear to far outweigh those fof the feelgood factor... Huh. 'Must be a reason. Could it be that A) misery sells better, or that B) heartbreaks are more memorable? I don't know. I just don't know. Maybe it's me, maybe I'm being in a funny mood tonight, hormones all over the place and no Mathieu at hand. 'Could be that I'm just better at recalling maudlin stuff (Lily does her little face and most definitely inhales, oooh yes).
...
Anyway that's weepies covered, you take your pick. All of them masterpieces, albeit of a kind, and all of them proven tear-jerkers. Were you to sit through three or four in a row, you'd go through an entire box of petrol station hankies (you know the kind, these jokers are notoriously thinner than paper... I call rip-off!). On the plus side though, you'd also feel drained, sanctified, and bizarrely good. You'd end full of love and understanding for the world like purified, stupefied, taken for a ride and back. You'd feel reborn, isn't that fab?
(Now compare and contrast with, say, "Grand Theft Auto" (I know I know, it's a videogame -but it's only a matter of time before it gets adapted onto the big screen, I bet). Nasty piece of work, that. It is my understanding that its fun resides in running over prostitutes, surely this can't be the case? )
Weepies
most certainly obey a slightly higher calling, they fulfill a nobler function.
To all infants and porpoises, I'd say they have a social role to play no less
...they are our friends. In some cases, they may even be the only friends we
have. Weepies speak to us, and they speak about us. Wrong women, abused
children, troubled teenagers who feel unloved, all manners of diffident souls
in search of comfort and salvation -Weepies give us characters we can relate
to, people like you and me (hopefully you rather than me lol!). Gay men forever
equivocating, Chinese warriors stoically carrying their secret love to their
grave, Bible thumping, religion of any denomination, abortion, orphans,
car-crashes, the big C, self-denial and more generally forbidden loves, divorce
-Cinema is not afraid of tackling serious subjects. It connects with something
real. It also has this magical ability to sow seeds and leave ripples behind:
Iconic moments imprint themselves on our minds ready to be recalled during
harsh times. ...We recall them when we're at loose ends at home on a Thursday
night for example.
...Like
the sight of a twenty-five year old Jeff Bridges with his shirt off under the
Mexican sun for one or Winona Ryder growing up in public, George Clooney's grey
temples and baby eyelashes, Dustin Hoffman's 30-something teenage indecision,
loners in desolate towns wondering what it'd be like to have a life, Christian
Slater nursing his baboon heart, Di Caprio going down with the ship, country
girls balling up their meager wardrobe and setting off to the big city at the
crack of dawn -there is no shortage of iconic moments out there for each of us.
Moments
moments... Those that mark you, you can replay them
by heart.
Like the ending of a particular series (why Carrie, why??) or the start of an impractical love affair between bankrobber George Clooney and policewoman Jennifer Lopez. I remember Matt Dillon's eyebrows, I remember Richard Gere in a white uniform, I remember Brian Eno's "By This River" on the soundtrack of "The Son's Room" and "Y Tu Mama Tambien" in the same year. I can still hear the ominous Jesus And Mary Chain song at the end of "Lost In Translation" and I remember freshly slain Patrick Swayzee -he of "nobody puts Baby in the corner"'s eternal fame- unable to communicate with his grieving Demi Moore of a wife ooh-er...
Like the ending of a particular series (why Carrie, why??) or the start of an impractical love affair between bankrobber George Clooney and policewoman Jennifer Lopez. I remember Matt Dillon's eyebrows, I remember Richard Gere in a white uniform, I remember Brian Eno's "By This River" on the soundtrack of "The Son's Room" and "Y Tu Mama Tambien" in the same year. I can still hear the ominous Jesus And Mary Chain song at the end of "Lost In Translation" and I remember freshly slain Patrick Swayzee -he of "nobody puts Baby in the corner"'s eternal fame- unable to communicate with his grieving Demi Moore of a wife ooh-er...
I
remember River Phoenix, I remember "The Great Gatsby"'s Daisy
desperately rabitting on about silk shirts. I can still hear ex-child prodigy
William H. Macey ("I used to be smart, I used to be smart -and now I'm
just stupid") wail on the shoulder of the sympathetic cop ("I
really do have love to give -and I don't know where to put it!"), I
can still see crippled little Audrey "Amelie" Tautou standing up to
the Army and reclaiming her fiancé back from the WWI dead. Somewhere in modern
Tokyo, a deaf Japanese teenager chooses to get drunk and attends her first
disco. Mousy Rosanna Arquette desperately trails flamboyant Madonna and
attempts to take on her daredevil personality -only to find out she has her own
destiny to fulfill. Humphrey Bogart sacrifices himself to save anti-fascist
Ingrid Bergman, Laura Linney sacrifices herself to care for her troubled
brother, Jeff Bridges sacrifices himself to protect compromised Rachel Ward
-that's an awful lot of people sacrificing themselves.
Some
moments are priceless. Like Juliette Binoche going up to confront her deceased
husband's mistress only to discover that the girl is pregnant, or else the Japanese
officer sneaking up under cover of night to collect a curl of Bowie's golden
hair... Meanwhile flawed teenthrob James Spader breaks down as the camera is
turned back on him: "This isn’t supposed to happen. I’ve spent nine
years structuring my life so this didn’t happen” and then I could mention
the German angel preferring a life of human vulnerability with his loved one
over lonely immortality, but then I could mention so many more.
Family rivalry; schoolgirl crushes; binge drinking; messy break-ups; one false move; slippery roads; stolen glances; class division. ...River Phoenix.
Family rivalry; schoolgirl crushes; binge drinking; messy break-ups; one false move; slippery roads; stolen glances; class division. ...River Phoenix.
Weepies
don't do things by half; they tickle our secrets, flatter our nostalgia, shine
a hard light on our conscience and short-cut straight through our reason: they
act as catalysts. They reveal a lot about ourselves, not least stuff we don't
necessarily want to look into but still -hey- tug at our heart strings. They
pierce through the cynical bullshit and remind us of how it felt to be human
before we became too cool to remember what true feelings were like. Sure,
there'll be tough nuts out there who have no truck with nostalgia and only want
to get closure (and fair play to them) but equally, equally there are others
amongst us who don't mind hanging on to The Great Mystery Of Love and like
better than cherish their obsessions...
Sometimes,
a passing detail is all it takes to get you hooked. It could be a line, it
could be a facial expression, it could be a minor subplot; I always loved, for
example, the scenes with your man from the posh hotel in "Pretty
Woman", when he takes Julia in and teaches her how to use forks. Deadly
actor!
Interestingly,
a film can suck for pretty much the same reason. Get one detail wrong and the
whole thing crumbles, all it takes is for one piece of the puzzle not to fall
into place and the whole edifice is ruined -Yes Mr. Cage, talking about you.
Let's recall the unintentionally hilarious adaptation of "Captain
Corelli's Mandolin", only the most lethal weepie publishing sensation of
the decade. Cast your mind back if you will... The time is WW2, the setting is
glorious Greece. Enter Penelope, probably carrying a laundry basket in a
totally non gender stereotypical way. She stoops to pick up mushrooms and
olives, has a quick shot of Ouzo. Meanwhile in the distance, men do battle.
Captain Nicolas Cage (for it is he!) swings by, wielding a mandolin (hence the
title). He goes: "Hey ragazza, it's meee, Corelli, remember-ah...? I'm
only ah-occupying your countreee! Che stupida la guerra, no? Well, belllla,
after I eatah la pizza, you hear me playah the mandolina for your eyes only,
si... -Ma, che? You don't wanna eat-ah pasta again?? Si? No? Ah, shaddap-ah
your face!" Something like that; I could have cried with
disappointment.
Sometimes, trivia is not taken as seriously as it should be.
I am thinking about these movies, novels and songs, and I really feel they are misrepresented. Is so unfair! There is no need to look down on this particular niche, it's as respectable as the next one. It has its own merits, and I can think of a few (coming rrright up). To start with, this genre has the power to touch us. Well it certainly touches me! What it does, it inspires me all sorts, it fuels my imagination, it stokes my -how you call it- creative fire yeah. It hits the parts that the nine-to-five day-to-days can't reach, awakening feelings not normally aroused by the work-place. That'd be my main argument: Weepies speak to us direct and make no pretence of getting all worthy and highfaluting, they aim straight for our hearts. They grip and don't let go.
Sometimes, trivia is not taken as seriously as it should be.
I am thinking about these movies, novels and songs, and I really feel they are misrepresented. Is so unfair! There is no need to look down on this particular niche, it's as respectable as the next one. It has its own merits, and I can think of a few (coming rrright up). To start with, this genre has the power to touch us. Well it certainly touches me! What it does, it inspires me all sorts, it fuels my imagination, it stokes my -how you call it- creative fire yeah. It hits the parts that the nine-to-five day-to-days can't reach, awakening feelings not normally aroused by the work-place. That'd be my main argument: Weepies speak to us direct and make no pretence of getting all worthy and highfaluting, they aim straight for our hearts. They grip and don't let go.
Clearly
I'm not the only one to hold a candle to the genre: How many weeks did
"Titanic" play to packed theatres again? How many millions of copies
did Barbra Cartland lay? Ever spotted what kind of novel people read on the
Luas? Surely these facts should be recognised and this genre celebrated! I
mean, do politicos want to foster lucrative industries? Well here's a grand one
right here! Weepies are massive in every sense, think about it. They break
publishing records, they shift millions of music singles, they provide jobs for
makers of wah-wah pedals and saxophones, they advance the cause of disposable
hankies, they bump up advertising rates -and all of this because... because
they mean to us.
They
mean to us, we make them ours. Success doesn't happen by chance, it happens
because the author's creation resonates with his or her audience. A successful
tear-jerker is one that engages with its viewers / readers / listeners in a
manner that your basic wham bam bang bang boy stuff will never be able to. How
so? ...Because of empathy. This is where the secret lies, what makes it an
integral part of our pyschological slash social make-up no less. Weepies offer
empathy from the author, and allow empathy from the readers. As we feel for the
characters, we care for their well-being. With a weepie, you can put yourself
in the protagonist's worn-out shoes ...which this is precisely what male
oriented stuff doesn't let you to do on a fundamental level.
Here
is my daring suggestion: Where weepies engage, bloke films only aim to impress;
where weepies seduce, action movies pummel into submission. It may sound
far-fetched, but I truly believe female oriented films are profoundly
democratic, aiming to include us in their experience, whereas male targeted
(action) movies are basically elitist stuff. Yes, elitist. The premise of an
action movie is that one hero -"and
only one"- will get to win. You know the trailer already, you heard
the mantra a thousand times yourself:
"It
was a time of (blah blah blah)" Evil reigns and all manners of baddies
are on the rampage, cue flashing lights, deafening cymbals, and faces raised in
anguish. Women pick nippers off the ground and gather them to their breasts.
"All hope seemed lost" Cue more strained faces, slow-motion
rain, and saintly elderlies who do their saintly elderly thing -i.e. they
stroke their beard and scratch their balls in desperation. "And one man
-only one man- can defeat them!" (the baddies that is, not the
elderlies -although we could all do without their bleeding presence on the road
or in the queue at the supermarket sometime but that's probably another story).
Enter muscle Mary, all torso and sneer, mullet flapping in the wind. The music
gets even louder and he snarls or squints something frightful. The trailer then
usually proceeds to show us exactly how it will all pan out and we've been told
the whole story. The end.
It is a matter of public understanding if not open knowledge that action movies promote inequality as their founding principle. Sure they do! Nobody else is allowed to prevail but your man. The winner takes all. Only it can't appear to be that crass or simple, and this is where it gets wicked. This is where the magic of screenwriting takes over / hold / place.
The truth is, in all things social we need to -hmm- abuse ourselves, and embellish reality. We resort to little white lies all of the time. When confronted with inconvenient truths, we call on make-believe to carry on (such as oh I don't know, repeat after me: Everybody's treated equal, I'll bet on the right horse, my friends won't let me down, I'll walk right into the person who'll change my life etc).. This is where screenwriters weave their magic. In these action movies we're on about, their job is to tone down the inequality principle at the core of the fable and set about painting the hero's personal victory as a general triumph. His succcess has to benefit the community and must be to some extent shared by others. 'Yous still with me? Now hold on to your bonnets cos' we're about to get heavy; let's get to the bottom of it. Action movies, so I've grown to think, carry a hidden luggage; they convey a certain political message. And what would his message be? It is my belief that it is what economists call the "trickle down theory". It's the idea that the hero's very own triumph will somehow be shared by all and everyone.
Of course it will. ...Although I have yet to see this one happen.
But let's not get ahead of ourseves; let's back up to the beginning. My feeling on the subject (like on many others) is that one can't absorb hours upon hours of certain experiences such as in this case movie plots without picking up a few recurring themes, without making out a few patterns. So what of plots? Here is how action yarns often conclude... Fast-forward the various battles, here is your ultimate winner; he's cream crackered, can hardly stand up, been up all night or maybe just ninety minutes vanquishing the dragon or what have you. Maybe he's totalled half of the German army single-handedly like Clint in "Where Eagles Dare", maybe he's driven his tractor the length of America in record time, anyhoo it's time for his pay-off. Happy days! Your man has got his hands on the treasure and nabbed himself that Elle McPherson lass. What happens next, do you reckon? ... That's right, he'll gonna share his due! For sure, he'll loan Elle McPherson to the peasants who hired him to defend their villlage, for sure he'll give back the key to the kingdom! 'Tell you what, he'll even throw in the pot of gold he's been busting his guts for the whole of the movie! ....Are you for real? Where did you ever see that happen? What'd be the point of being a hero? Gedda out of the garden!! Seriouslythough. Since when were winners ever generous? Does Arnie get all self-effacing at the end of his battles and go: "Oh it vas really nothink, I'm chuss happy for ze town. Here, ton't vorry about my multiple inchuries and insteat keep my revard, infest it into creches and lipraries yeah"?? Message to planet Earth: every study shows that the most charitable are always the poorest, not least plucky little Ireland herself. Winners don't belong here. Why should they be interested in wealth redistribution? That'd go right against their definition. Since they win, they collect. (A hundred million fanboys shudder in their jockstraps at the spectre of communism...) Heroes really ought to advertise L'Oréal shampoo, they deserve their deserts. (And desserts too.) It's only justice they get to clean up at the end and -let's turn the screw one more- there's a reason for this. There's an underlying reason. It's not by chance heroes prevail ...it is because they were always meant to.
It is a matter of public understanding if not open knowledge that action movies promote inequality as their founding principle. Sure they do! Nobody else is allowed to prevail but your man. The winner takes all. Only it can't appear to be that crass or simple, and this is where it gets wicked. This is where the magic of screenwriting takes over / hold / place.
The truth is, in all things social we need to -hmm- abuse ourselves, and embellish reality. We resort to little white lies all of the time. When confronted with inconvenient truths, we call on make-believe to carry on (such as oh I don't know, repeat after me: Everybody's treated equal, I'll bet on the right horse, my friends won't let me down, I'll walk right into the person who'll change my life etc).. This is where screenwriters weave their magic. In these action movies we're on about, their job is to tone down the inequality principle at the core of the fable and set about painting the hero's personal victory as a general triumph. His succcess has to benefit the community and must be to some extent shared by others. 'Yous still with me? Now hold on to your bonnets cos' we're about to get heavy; let's get to the bottom of it. Action movies, so I've grown to think, carry a hidden luggage; they convey a certain political message. And what would his message be? It is my belief that it is what economists call the "trickle down theory". It's the idea that the hero's very own triumph will somehow be shared by all and everyone.
Of course it will. ...Although I have yet to see this one happen.
But let's not get ahead of ourseves; let's back up to the beginning. My feeling on the subject (like on many others) is that one can't absorb hours upon hours of certain experiences such as in this case movie plots without picking up a few recurring themes, without making out a few patterns. So what of plots? Here is how action yarns often conclude... Fast-forward the various battles, here is your ultimate winner; he's cream crackered, can hardly stand up, been up all night or maybe just ninety minutes vanquishing the dragon or what have you. Maybe he's totalled half of the German army single-handedly like Clint in "Where Eagles Dare", maybe he's driven his tractor the length of America in record time, anyhoo it's time for his pay-off. Happy days! Your man has got his hands on the treasure and nabbed himself that Elle McPherson lass. What happens next, do you reckon? ... That's right, he'll gonna share his due! For sure, he'll loan Elle McPherson to the peasants who hired him to defend their villlage, for sure he'll give back the key to the kingdom! 'Tell you what, he'll even throw in the pot of gold he's been busting his guts for the whole of the movie! ....Are you for real? Where did you ever see that happen? What'd be the point of being a hero? Gedda out of the garden!! Seriouslythough. Since when were winners ever generous? Does Arnie get all self-effacing at the end of his battles and go: "Oh it vas really nothink, I'm chuss happy for ze town. Here, ton't vorry about my multiple inchuries and insteat keep my revard, infest it into creches and lipraries yeah"?? Message to planet Earth: every study shows that the most charitable are always the poorest, not least plucky little Ireland herself. Winners don't belong here. Why should they be interested in wealth redistribution? That'd go right against their definition. Since they win, they collect. (A hundred million fanboys shudder in their jockstraps at the spectre of communism...) Heroes really ought to advertise L'Oréal shampoo, they deserve their deserts. (And desserts too.) It's only justice they get to clean up at the end and -let's turn the screw one more- there's a reason for this. There's an underlying reason. It's not by chance heroes prevail ...it is because they were always meant to.
More
often than not, "heroic heroes" -note the tautology here- have been
blessed from the start. They already have that special gift, the one that will
single them out from their competitors and ensure their eventual triumph so
really the question ought to be: Where's the contest, then? Who gives??
Maybe they can drive fast ("SpeedRacer"), maybe they can punch hard ("Rocky"). Maybe they can wave about their joystick real good ("StarWars"), maybe they have been earmarked by the gods or Marlon Brando -same difference- ("Hercules", "Superman", "Clash Of The Titans"). Maybe they can hit a bottle of beer at more than six paces ("Shooter", any western you care to mention), the common denominator here is ...they're not like you and me. (Certainly not me eh, 'can hardly operate a firearm apart from the auld machine-gun, rocket-launcher, grenade-propeller or telescopic rifle. And I sometime struggle with the rocket-launcher.) Heroes, what do you know? They're guaranteed their happy ending; they prevail because they've been heroes from the start.
Just saying here, but I could also point out that they're heroes thanks to clever casting, lol. Casting pretty much tells you all you need to know before the filum starts. You know it's true! You know who to expect, and what, and when. Like, when was the last time you saw Bruce Willis deciding midway through to "Ah, juss' forget it!" and flop back onto his sofa in his slippers and trackies to watch "Countdown"? ("I'll have a p, Bob!") Was he ever in doubt? ...I rest me case. It's true though, take your Schwarzeneggers, your Sly Stallones, your John-Claude Van Dammes and co. They've got massive biceps and other bits ...chances are they're gonna put them to good effect before the closing credits. In fact, I seem to remember reading that it was part of Charles Bronson's contract he had to appear topless in all his films! (Just like some actresses mind you, but that's another story altogether...)
Getting back on track, so. Oh sure, heroes must be seen to overcome various difficulties along the way -these ninety minutes, they have to be filled somehow- and so we suspend our disbelief patiently (with a clothes peg, lol!) as we watch them negotiate token obstacle after token obstacle like a good boy. They certainly come across aggro like you would not believe! And at every fifteen minute intervals, too. Maybe they'll take a beating (they often do); maybe they will get shot (the shoulder sems to be a popular spot); maybe they'll even have to cross-dress (ooh, risquééé!) but in all cases, we already know the outcome -and I suspect the actor does too. The biggest wind-up consists of course in landing your man on the verge of complete defeat right at the end. Yikes! Could it be he's made a hash of it? Will he not save the galaxy but will in fact get pulverised to shite by the Moronator and Bollixatrix?? OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod, we're running out of nails to bite here! The answer is no he hasn't / yes he will / and no he won't. Phew that was a close shave!
Maybe they can drive fast ("SpeedRacer"), maybe they can punch hard ("Rocky"). Maybe they can wave about their joystick real good ("StarWars"), maybe they have been earmarked by the gods or Marlon Brando -same difference- ("Hercules", "Superman", "Clash Of The Titans"). Maybe they can hit a bottle of beer at more than six paces ("Shooter", any western you care to mention), the common denominator here is ...they're not like you and me. (Certainly not me eh, 'can hardly operate a firearm apart from the auld machine-gun, rocket-launcher, grenade-propeller or telescopic rifle. And I sometime struggle with the rocket-launcher.) Heroes, what do you know? They're guaranteed their happy ending; they prevail because they've been heroes from the start.
Just saying here, but I could also point out that they're heroes thanks to clever casting, lol. Casting pretty much tells you all you need to know before the filum starts. You know it's true! You know who to expect, and what, and when. Like, when was the last time you saw Bruce Willis deciding midway through to "Ah, juss' forget it!" and flop back onto his sofa in his slippers and trackies to watch "Countdown"? ("I'll have a p, Bob!") Was he ever in doubt? ...I rest me case. It's true though, take your Schwarzeneggers, your Sly Stallones, your John-Claude Van Dammes and co. They've got massive biceps and other bits ...chances are they're gonna put them to good effect before the closing credits. In fact, I seem to remember reading that it was part of Charles Bronson's contract he had to appear topless in all his films! (Just like some actresses mind you, but that's another story altogether...)
Getting back on track, so. Oh sure, heroes must be seen to overcome various difficulties along the way -these ninety minutes, they have to be filled somehow- and so we suspend our disbelief patiently (with a clothes peg, lol!) as we watch them negotiate token obstacle after token obstacle like a good boy. They certainly come across aggro like you would not believe! And at every fifteen minute intervals, too. Maybe they'll take a beating (they often do); maybe they will get shot (the shoulder sems to be a popular spot); maybe they'll even have to cross-dress (ooh, risquééé!) but in all cases, we already know the outcome -and I suspect the actor does too. The biggest wind-up consists of course in landing your man on the verge of complete defeat right at the end. Yikes! Could it be he's made a hash of it? Will he not save the galaxy but will in fact get pulverised to shite by the Moronator and Bollixatrix?? OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod, we're running out of nails to bite here! The answer is no he hasn't / yes he will / and no he won't. Phew that was a close shave!
By contrast and see above, weepies don't guarantee you a happy end, it's more of a fifty-fifty chance with them. For every "Pretty Woman" you have a "Brief Encounter", for every fairy tale you have a tear-jerker. With weepies, it's either a case of poor little hoor gets swept off her feet by Prince Charming (and lucky lucky Doris Day gets her hands on Rock Hudson), or it's another self-kicking tale about doomed love, unrequited shite, and the kind of charade that usually features Julianne Moore and a church in the background -Oh Jools, lighten up already yeah! "Love Actually", with its multiple storylines that did Georgie's head in the two first times she saw it, cleverly offers both types of ending. There's the happy one (that will be the sub-plot involving Hughie Grant, complete with mop-top and clipped accent), and the sad one (starring who else but the ever fabulous Laura Linney who gets yet another kick in the teeth; maybe she should team up with Julianne sometime, these two might stand a better chance...?).
The question is... which genre do I belong to?
chapter
13 It's raining frogs (No no, it's not about "Magnolia"!)
The phone rings ("riiiing!"), it's Georgina. Now here's someone who always cheers me up!
-"Hey babe, it's me"
-"I know, 'can see your name hee hee. So how are things widcha? What's up?"
-"Oh notalot notalot, not much happening (heh heh!), same old same old ...except something maybe, just had to tell you, turns out I may actually have a bit of news..."
-"A bit of news? Good girl yourself! Go on tell us -But first things first: News for me or news for you?"
-"News for me."
-"OK, go on. Is something good or is something bad?"
-"Is something good."
-"Massive, go on! I'm all ears, could do with good news meself in fact"
Georgie goes all coy. Bitch wants to play with me.
-"Oh it's actually early days yet... don't know if I should really..."
-"Ah cut the crap will ya, don't act so mysterious with me -you wouldn't have called me otherwise, would you? So what's the big story? What's been happening in this crazy world of yours? Sold another blank square for ten thousand?"
-"OK OK -Not that, I wish!- sure I'll tell you but... but like I said, it's early days yet. May've got carried away already -Anyway, here's the story ... Well, fancy that missy, but 'deffo looks like you're not the only one here, looks like we've both had a lucky strike!"
-"Go on go on... tell us more..."
-"(Hee hee) Just that I've pulled big time! Total cheesecake, you would not beliiiieve! Think I'm in lurv."
-"Good girl yourself, that's fabulous! How did this happen then? Go on, don't keep us in suspenders, 'wanna hear all the embarrassing details!"
-"Ha! Oh you're so cute, sometime you are! Well now. Oh my. Well first, need to tell you -and you won't believe it but- he turns out to be like your fella: He's a Frenchman!"
-"Frenchman? Another one?? What's going on here?? And there was me, thinking we were being "swamped by the Poles" last time I came across "Talk To Joe"! Is it the Frenchies' turn to crawl out of the woodwork now?? Just where do all they come from all of a sudden?"
-"Er... from France, presumably."
-"H'eh! Don't get cheeky on me missy! Anyhoo -Fair play to you! Another Frenchman eh... and what's the lucky man's name?"
-"Well, am not quite sure actually, 'told me his mates call him Nicolas, some kind of football reference, but big time yawn here, you know me and footballers eh... Grown-up men in short trousers, wasn't exactly clear who and what -Anyway, Nicolas it is then. Or rather "Nico", to respect his majesty's wishes."
-"If that makes him happy. So what's he look like exactly, this hunk of yours? How did he end up here of all places? His line of work? How did yous meet? Someplace kinky? When yous two meet again next? Anything planned for the weekend?"
-"Hang on hang on, not so fast! Let me tell you yeah! ... Now then. Met him at the Shelbourne."
-"At the Shelbourne -gedda o'here!"
-"Oh but I did! Shelbourne Hotel if you don't mind! Anyway what happened is, 'got myself down there last night -there was this function fronted by the Waits girl herself. The old trout was supposedly fronting a campaign against something or another. Funny that, but I was under the impression she was supposed to be "terrified of appearing in public ever again" after her "stalker nightmare", you remember? As featured in The Indo over three whole columns plus colour photo hee hee ...Or was it last week's story already?"
-"Oh but Georgina Develin you're a terrible woman so you are! 'Matter of fact, I think this week in The Indo, our Gloria is "showing her caring side" by "highlighting compassion for the less privileged amongst us" ...in D4 or thereabouts."
-"Oh yeah. Give it away Gloria! Fair play to her says I. Anyway, this campaign yoke. Your man at work mentions it in passing and I'm thinking: Uh-oh, perfect excuse to parade another throw of wannabes -you know the kind, the usual "aspiring models" and other coke-heads that got UV-rayed to a crisp- I am thinking. Who says aspiring models says agency snappers says sugar daddies in attendance. It is a truth generally acknowledged that men can't look past a dizzy blonde."
-"Good thinking there, now that's my girl!"
-"Right back atcha. So -like- go to check on iVenus, decide there and then to put up an appearance, and dash home to slut myself up something suitable. Nice and classy though. Is not the time for flat shoe long sleeves. More like wonderbra's big night out -You remember my little black number?"
-"Which one? The one you wore at the Groland embassy?"
-"No no, the one I wore at the awards for "The Most Popular National Soaps On Daytime Terrestrial Television" last month."
-"Oh yeah, I remember, at the Sugar club it was -And what a grand night it was too ...if only you like beer and nothing else. That'll be the one with the spaghetti straps then -Why, did you wear that?"
-"Hell no I didn't! Went for proper class I did. Went for the cream coloured ensemble the dork got me for me birthday."
-"Top drawer! You go get 'em girl!"
-"Too right, missy! We need to knock the bastards dead while we still can, right?"
-"We certainly must. Now carry on."
-"Now where was I? Oh yeah! Went for the cream coloured number then, touch of "Orgasm Number Five", generous splash of "Quivering Heights", and off we go! Was like totally made up. Got myself there right on time, too. Not too visibly late for the proceedings, certainly nowhere near too early, proper timing like.
Well I get there, and it was just like you'd imagine: Bull's eye on saddo front! Total turkey shoot in a barrel. All the girls with oversized sunglasses and hair tied up to make them look thinner. What a heart-warming sight they made... And the blokes just as predictable, all striped shirts and tongues hanging out. The works! And your man goes: "I say... would you care for a cup of champagne, miss?" and the one other goes: "Nice weather for this time of year, what? Lovely evening, wouldn't you agree? Blah blah blah, haven't we met before, I'm sure we did. Wasn't it at the RDS for this horse show thingy, no?" And on and on and on. Well, string me up in a bag of potatoes but I sure cared for a cup of bubbly so I told him!"
-"More power to you sister!"
-"You're very welcome. These charity bashes, that's thirsty work that! It's all very nice to be campaigning on behalf of fund-raising -one has to look after one's health first!"
-"So
right you are, Georgie, so right you are..."
-"Now
then, quickly passed on the horsey people, 'give me the creeps they do. Now let
me ask you something, let me ask you this, on the subject... Have you actually
ever met an actual jockey? An actual one. Have you? Well I have. I have, and
they're about four feet high (five counting their nose), they sneeze a lot,
they smell funny, and there's something of the bogman in them. Something of the
bogman like they never quite made the transition to the big city. Back to their
paddock says I! Off off off, away they go! Anyway. Back to Gloria."
-"Back to Gloria."
-"Back to Gloria."
That's
the beauty about Georgie. When she gets started on an anecdote, you never know
at which point she'll get back on track, get to the point. Wit her, it's like
why use ten words when a hundred will do?
-"How
was our star then? Did she manage alright? Managed to speak with her mouth
while breathing at the same time? I get worried sometime, you know"
-"Oh who isn't? (Or rather, who is?) Well don't fret no more Lily, our Gloria's done grand. Dead grand, even. Managed to stand on her own legs. There she was, let out for the occasion, admitted in the Shelbourne, and standing up like the right trooper she is."
-"Oh who isn't? (Or rather, who is?) Well don't fret no more Lily, our Gloria's done grand. Dead grand, even. Managed to stand on her own legs. There she was, let out for the occasion, admitted in the Shelbourne, and standing up like the right trooper she is."
-"She
is a martyr to the cause, these swanky does."
-"And
not a helping hand on her tush in sight. Standing upright. But now -here comes
the meat- guess who else was there hosting with her, right in front of my own
eyes?"
-"Well
I don't know Georgie, you put me on the spot here. Was it Andrea Corr? Minnie
Driver? Brian Cowen?"
-"Lorraine Keane."
-"Lorraine Keane!!"
-"I know! Couldn't believe it myself! There I was, in the same room as The Lozza Herself -and what a sight she was! Proper A-lister and no feckin' about! Looked even slimmer than on the box -and you know what they say about the camera. Joking aside, she looked lethal. Dead fit and all. ...Seems to have grown boobs, though (cough, cough)."
-"Heh! Has she now?"
-"Lorraine Keane!!"
-"I know! Couldn't believe it myself! There I was, in the same room as The Lozza Herself -and what a sight she was! Proper A-lister and no feckin' about! Looked even slimmer than on the box -and you know what they say about the camera. Joking aside, she looked lethal. Dead fit and all. ...Seems to have grown boobs, though (cough, cough)."
-"Heh! Has she now?"
-"She
has."
-"I
see. Just for the night, then."
-"Just for the occasion. Ain't that a treat!"
-"Fair play to our Lorraine! She does us proud, she always does. Now one thing is sure though, what with these two on the case, that must have been some pretty hardcore campaigning going on ...on behalf of whatever it was."
-"Ah sure it was. Every time I checked, they were like buzzing: Lorraine ladylike as they come, Gloria dealing with the champers. I'd say they were certainly drawing a lot of attention from the gentlemen in attendance. I mean, as in drawing attention to the totally burning issue of the day of course."
-"That's understood. Of course they were. That's like so commendable ...being there's so many of them"
-"So many of them -and all requiring our utmost vigilance too."
-"It truly is a valley of tears all round. That's why we need to send a strong signal and clear message yeah."
-"Strong message coming up: Gloria to the rescue!"
-"Gloria, and Lorraine too! Don't you forget Lorraine!"
-"I most certainly don't. Shouldn't we maybe be doing some air punching over the phone in her honour?"
-"We most certainly could: Go Glenda go! On the count of three: one... two..."
-"Three! Job boxed off, you can stop the Net now: Glenda's just saved the world. Too bad I didn't get what it was your woman was prattling on about because -now sit yourself still babes- this was the moment when I first laid my eyes on him.
...The man himself."
-"Just for the occasion. Ain't that a treat!"
-"Fair play to our Lorraine! She does us proud, she always does. Now one thing is sure though, what with these two on the case, that must have been some pretty hardcore campaigning going on ...on behalf of whatever it was."
-"Ah sure it was. Every time I checked, they were like buzzing: Lorraine ladylike as they come, Gloria dealing with the champers. I'd say they were certainly drawing a lot of attention from the gentlemen in attendance. I mean, as in drawing attention to the totally burning issue of the day of course."
-"That's understood. Of course they were. That's like so commendable ...being there's so many of them"
-"So many of them -and all requiring our utmost vigilance too."
-"It truly is a valley of tears all round. That's why we need to send a strong signal and clear message yeah."
-"Strong message coming up: Gloria to the rescue!"
-"Gloria, and Lorraine too! Don't you forget Lorraine!"
-"I most certainly don't. Shouldn't we maybe be doing some air punching over the phone in her honour?"
-"We most certainly could: Go Glenda go! On the count of three: one... two..."
-"Three! Job boxed off, you can stop the Net now: Glenda's just saved the world. Too bad I didn't get what it was your woman was prattling on about because -now sit yourself still babes- this was the moment when I first laid my eyes on him.
...The man himself."
Oh
yeah, her new fella! I know there was supposed to be a point to this word
salad...
-"Oh yeah, that's right! What about your man then? your new dreamboat? Go on go on, get to it already and let the dog see the rabbitt!"
-"Heh heh, not so fast missy not so fast, need to build on my suspense first. ...... There, built. Answer to your question coming right up. So there I was, right? Getting bored to my tits by this... this "property developer" or somesuch thing, 'goes on and on and on about Dubai. Dubai this, Dubai that, 'parently hosts the biggest concentration of cranes in the whole world -like mad stuff yeah? Proper mental, my ovaries are right tingling and he goes on and on, says he's thinking of diversifying into non-residential, what do you think of that Miss, non-residential for a change, space can be surface too, and he's got -like- tons of gaff in the region -not "entirely built" though, but's all in the process, all in the process, the projected return's the thing really, not the actual building and talking of which, hey -I swear I didn't see this one coming in a month of Sundays- would I like maybe to go and see his projects for myself sometime? accompany him on a break, like? take in a spot of sight-seeing, knowhorImean"
-"Totally. Sight-seeing. At a construction site."
-"Exactly. Now let me ask you. Let me ask you this Lily. Do I look like the kind of person who gives a flying feck about tropical deserts? Do I?"
-"No."
-"That's right I don't. So there I am, just about to brain the bleedin' eejit, when who do I clock but your Waits girl, 'couple of yards away, positively doing her eyes in at something -or could it be someone...- right behind me. And I'm thinking. I'm thinking: Our Gloria's gotta be contracted to hold conversations with her sponsors (or at least try), that's why she can't move, that's why she's doing this face. Can't shake them off despite clearly dying to do one, so what's going on behind me's godda be pretty tasty.
You know me, I get concerned about Gloria's peace of mind right? So I turn round to see what the story is -And there he is, glass of bubbly at the ready, the hunk to end all hunks, after offering a drink to an old trout in some hideous green velvet frock. Gentleman-like as they come. All of his teeth by the look of it. And hair. Decent head of hair -no toupee for him. No pot belly or signs of riding horses. Can't begin to tell you how amazed she looked, the old dear must have wet herself right there and then when he spoke to her!"
-"Highlight of her evening to be sure. Would have been rude of her not to contribute to the cause after that, 'must have been a plant! That's pretty clever of the organisers if that's the case... So anyway, let me guess. Let me guess what happens next: You bite your lips crimson, you hike up your boobs, you tell your current beau to get lost by the way, and you jump on the eye-candy before Gloria has a chance!"
-"Pretty much so -Girl, have we met before or what? So yep, told the master of the universe to go get me a glass and off he went. Sorted! So like, I go up to your man -cool as you like yeah?- and ask him about his invitation. It - always - works! Either they ain't got one and we can have a laugh about sneaking in, or else they turn out to be super connected and you suddenly find yourself in the presence of, say, Louis Walsh's son or something"
-"Louis Walsh's son..."
-"Or Gerry Ryan's for that matter (ewww), or maybe one of the Bono's brothers."
-"Good thinking there."
-"Why thank you babes, I like to think so too. It's like, I remember that time -you were away doing some studying or something- I bump into this queer looking fellow yeah? and he's like, blowing smoke from all orifices -that was before the ban of course- and he's wearing these scaldy clothes like he's never heard about matching colours, creases all over the place, ketchup stains (hope it wasn't blood) -in short, a right sight for eyes as sophisticated as mine! So I go up to him -cool as you like, always- and I go: "Oh good evening, you're very welcome to our little occasion, I am Georgina Develin and you must be... now let me guess: 'you with the bride?" Turned out to be that Dunphy bloke! The one from the telly!"
-"Well I never!"
-"I kid you not babe, would never have known, like I said, me and footballers... He had to introduce himself proper. And all the while, all the while he was giving me the big "I am" I could only think to myself: You must have got dressed in a hurry, pal...
-"Oh yeah, that's right! What about your man then? your new dreamboat? Go on go on, get to it already and let the dog see the rabbitt!"
-"Heh heh, not so fast missy not so fast, need to build on my suspense first. ...... There, built. Answer to your question coming right up. So there I was, right? Getting bored to my tits by this... this "property developer" or somesuch thing, 'goes on and on and on about Dubai. Dubai this, Dubai that, 'parently hosts the biggest concentration of cranes in the whole world -like mad stuff yeah? Proper mental, my ovaries are right tingling and he goes on and on, says he's thinking of diversifying into non-residential, what do you think of that Miss, non-residential for a change, space can be surface too, and he's got -like- tons of gaff in the region -not "entirely built" though, but's all in the process, all in the process, the projected return's the thing really, not the actual building and talking of which, hey -I swear I didn't see this one coming in a month of Sundays- would I like maybe to go and see his projects for myself sometime? accompany him on a break, like? take in a spot of sight-seeing, knowhorImean"
-"Totally. Sight-seeing. At a construction site."
-"Exactly. Now let me ask you. Let me ask you this Lily. Do I look like the kind of person who gives a flying feck about tropical deserts? Do I?"
-"No."
-"That's right I don't. So there I am, just about to brain the bleedin' eejit, when who do I clock but your Waits girl, 'couple of yards away, positively doing her eyes in at something -or could it be someone...- right behind me. And I'm thinking. I'm thinking: Our Gloria's gotta be contracted to hold conversations with her sponsors (or at least try), that's why she can't move, that's why she's doing this face. Can't shake them off despite clearly dying to do one, so what's going on behind me's godda be pretty tasty.
You know me, I get concerned about Gloria's peace of mind right? So I turn round to see what the story is -And there he is, glass of bubbly at the ready, the hunk to end all hunks, after offering a drink to an old trout in some hideous green velvet frock. Gentleman-like as they come. All of his teeth by the look of it. And hair. Decent head of hair -no toupee for him. No pot belly or signs of riding horses. Can't begin to tell you how amazed she looked, the old dear must have wet herself right there and then when he spoke to her!"
-"Highlight of her evening to be sure. Would have been rude of her not to contribute to the cause after that, 'must have been a plant! That's pretty clever of the organisers if that's the case... So anyway, let me guess. Let me guess what happens next: You bite your lips crimson, you hike up your boobs, you tell your current beau to get lost by the way, and you jump on the eye-candy before Gloria has a chance!"
-"Pretty much so -Girl, have we met before or what? So yep, told the master of the universe to go get me a glass and off he went. Sorted! So like, I go up to your man -cool as you like yeah?- and ask him about his invitation. It - always - works! Either they ain't got one and we can have a laugh about sneaking in, or else they turn out to be super connected and you suddenly find yourself in the presence of, say, Louis Walsh's son or something"
-"Louis Walsh's son..."
-"Or Gerry Ryan's for that matter (ewww), or maybe one of the Bono's brothers."
-"Good thinking there."
-"Why thank you babes, I like to think so too. It's like, I remember that time -you were away doing some studying or something- I bump into this queer looking fellow yeah? and he's like, blowing smoke from all orifices -that was before the ban of course- and he's wearing these scaldy clothes like he's never heard about matching colours, creases all over the place, ketchup stains (hope it wasn't blood) -in short, a right sight for eyes as sophisticated as mine! So I go up to him -cool as you like, always- and I go: "Oh good evening, you're very welcome to our little occasion, I am Georgina Develin and you must be... now let me guess: 'you with the bride?" Turned out to be that Dunphy bloke! The one from the telly!"
-"Well I never!"
-"I kid you not babe, would never have known, like I said, me and footballers... He had to introduce himself proper. And all the while, all the while he was giving me the big "I am" I could only think to myself: You must have got dressed in a hurry, pal...
-"And
in the dark too"
-"And
in the dark. I was morto, you don't expect these characters in our circle, do
you. What next, I asks you? Tweed? Elbow patches??"
-"Heaven forbid! But what about your Nicolas then? What about "Nico"? Get back on track already!"
-"OK OK getting to it, I'm getting to it alright! You know what though? Sometime, Lily, you're always the same... So. So we're like at the introduction stage, all prim and proper, no quick in-and-out in the cupboard yet, and he tells me he was only after passing by, saw the light on, and he just had to come in check what was up! Like I believe him eh ...cheeky monkey. He's actually working for the French embassy."
-"A-ha. This explains that."
-"Explains indeed. His job is to do with cultural partnerships, exhibitions, exchanges, the usual shite about Joyce and Beckett in Paris. Nothing new under the sun then. Oh and -get this- 'parently there's this writer, like dead famous, 's been living in Dublin for quite a while now... He's supposed to be right scandalous -a Frenchman scandalous, who would have thought!- controversial. Writes naughty stuff."
-"Writes naughty stuff you say? Can't see who it could be... A French writer eh? ...Huh. 'Only living French writer I can think of is your man who wrote "Captain Corelli" and can't be him, surely."
-"Heaven forbid! But what about your Nicolas then? What about "Nico"? Get back on track already!"
-"OK OK getting to it, I'm getting to it alright! You know what though? Sometime, Lily, you're always the same... So. So we're like at the introduction stage, all prim and proper, no quick in-and-out in the cupboard yet, and he tells me he was only after passing by, saw the light on, and he just had to come in check what was up! Like I believe him eh ...cheeky monkey. He's actually working for the French embassy."
-"A-ha. This explains that."
-"Explains indeed. His job is to do with cultural partnerships, exhibitions, exchanges, the usual shite about Joyce and Beckett in Paris. Nothing new under the sun then. Oh and -get this- 'parently there's this writer, like dead famous, 's been living in Dublin for quite a while now... He's supposed to be right scandalous -a Frenchman scandalous, who would have thought!- controversial. Writes naughty stuff."
-"Writes naughty stuff you say? Can't see who it could be... A French writer eh? ...Huh. 'Only living French writer I can think of is your man who wrote "Captain Corelli" and can't be him, surely."
-"Ah,
whoever, doesn't matter."
-"'Wonder why Nico was so keen to tell
you about him though..."
-"And so did I so did I, so I ask him, I asks: Oh yeah, and what kind of naughty stuff then? What do you mean by that? To call his bluff yeah? But in a like totally classy way you hear, totally classy -what with me being all prim and proper y'know"
-"I know"
-"Well then, before I even have time to work up a blush, your man starts telling me exactly what! Telling me in detail too. Looks me right in the eye, and starts telling me about this book where you have this guy, right? comes up with a lethal idea for sorting Third World poverty and Western boredom. What he does yeah, what he does he sets up these international brothels on these islands -'you still with me?-, these islands where rich Westerners go on the tear and shag local Africans or Asians and the result is, the result is, them locals are no longer starving and them Europeans get a right mental ride -Everyone's a winner!"
-"Well that's a... that's an intriguing solution to geopolitics, to be sure"
-"Local Africans, local Asians, and all the while I am thinking: Yes, but what about local Irish girls eh? What about them? What gives?? So I ask him. I asks: Hold it there, Mister! I can see the appeal of your man's scheme (for right slappers and dirty old men, that is) ...but what's wrong with Irish girls? Why couldn't they be considered? Does he hold any prejudice? Huh? Has he tried one yet?"
-"Who has? The author or Nicolas?"
-"Nicolas of course! Guess what: He has. He doesn't mind telling me, and then gives me this dirty wink like she's kind of easy ride"
-"Charming."
-"Charming or maybe just telling it like it is -There's some right old skangers out there, truth be told, give us a bad name and all, letting the side down and no consideration. Well at least I get a better picture of who I'm dealing with here."
-"I guess it does. But what's with Gloria, meanwhile? She 'still tending to her guests while yous are discussing literature or does she butt in with her size 14 to have a go herself?"
-"A-ha, funny you should mention her. Cos' yes indeed, all the time I'm very much aware of our Gloria you bet. So what I do, right? I sort of find myself steering your man away from her towards the bar."
-"How understandable -you must have been right parched."
-"Desperately so."
-"Do carry on."
-"Now then. To be fair, your man doesn't put up much resistance and soon we find ourselves partaking of a few beverages -mainly alcoholic, I seem to note. Then I suggest maybe we could step outside for a quick smoke. Outside as in... far from that bunch of envious bitches who are giving him the eye nonstop. Guess what? Your man turns out to be a smoker himself -well he is French after all- and so we go. As for Gloria? Brown bread, not to be seen again."
-"Poor old Gloria."
-"Poor old Gloria. Pity, really: She looked so fetching in her polyester red dress and green carnation. Killer combination of blue eyeshadow and leather sandals."
-"Ah yes, she's not been the same since she split up with your man has she. Lost her reason for living I guess ...or for making the papers. Oh well."
-"One nil to Georgie!"
-"Happy days!"
-"Happy days or... happy night..."
-"Happy -happy night?? What 'you telling me here, Georgie Develin? Let me get this right so. Yous two step out for a smoke -Then what? what happens next? Yous clearly didn't just exchange numbers, did you... did you close the deal?"
Georgie does her funny voice again.
-"I'd say we did..."
-"You did? Outside the Shelbourne??"
-"'Course not, not at the Shelbs silly! Back at my pad. Didn't have much time to ourselves sadly: He had to go get ready for some highfaluting yoke taking place today, he couldn't stay"
(Do they ever!)
"So I had to give him a certain something to remember me by, like ... which I was very happy to provide. And he certainly will. Remember me and all."
-"Ohmygod! Did you really?? Why you... And has he called since?"
-"He has, he has. Been good as gold. Said he would call and call he did, the very next day. That is to say earlier on tonight. Oh yes, I have high hopes for this young man. We've made plans to meet over the weekend."
Poor old Gloria... Sometimes I feel we're being too harsh on her; I mean, she's not that old really.
But that's the thing though, it's got nothing to do with age actually, let alone with her real one. G. and I started calling everyone "old trout" way back when in our teens. Aged thirteen, you see someone who's sixteen they're like, from another world altogether! And when I say sixteen, what when they're twenty! They lead a complete different existence hovering over us, it's like they know so much already, been there, done it and done it all, you and them don't have anything in common and you're just this little squirt, all pigtails and black spots staring anxiously at your bedroom mirrror when here they are, so confident and self-assured, they tower over you and show you up you with their make-up done proper and incidental sense of identity. You look at them and think, See her, she can walk in any pub no bother, she can pick up anyone she fancies ...she doesn't have to report home for tea. When you're thirteen, everyone ahead deserves your jealousy.
And so we once were thirteen, Georgie and me; then it was our turn to turn sixteen... eighteen... and twenty. Now when you're twenty, someone twenty-five is like mature, and someone thirty a right old fart. That's just the way it is, life ploughs on relentless, and our own landmarks get pushed back accordingly.
Now poor old Gloria may be no more than thirty-three going on twenty-eight, us two bitches still need her held back somehow. We need her to remain this slightly more aged figure so that we can enjoy our youth to the max, knowing she'll always be a reference point that allows us to still feel like teenagers (how much longer can we still be allowed to behave like late teenagers being another question altogether!). So we keep her at bay, we cut her down to size. We make a point of distancing ourselves from her any which way we can find. Can you believe the gall of the girl, totally nails it Lily, our Gloria's one of these people who speak about themselves in the third person!?!
-"And so did I so did I, so I ask him, I asks: Oh yeah, and what kind of naughty stuff then? What do you mean by that? To call his bluff yeah? But in a like totally classy way you hear, totally classy -what with me being all prim and proper y'know"
-"I know"
-"Well then, before I even have time to work up a blush, your man starts telling me exactly what! Telling me in detail too. Looks me right in the eye, and starts telling me about this book where you have this guy, right? comes up with a lethal idea for sorting Third World poverty and Western boredom. What he does yeah, what he does he sets up these international brothels on these islands -'you still with me?-, these islands where rich Westerners go on the tear and shag local Africans or Asians and the result is, the result is, them locals are no longer starving and them Europeans get a right mental ride -Everyone's a winner!"
-"Well that's a... that's an intriguing solution to geopolitics, to be sure"
-"Local Africans, local Asians, and all the while I am thinking: Yes, but what about local Irish girls eh? What about them? What gives?? So I ask him. I asks: Hold it there, Mister! I can see the appeal of your man's scheme (for right slappers and dirty old men, that is) ...but what's wrong with Irish girls? Why couldn't they be considered? Does he hold any prejudice? Huh? Has he tried one yet?"
-"Who has? The author or Nicolas?"
-"Nicolas of course! Guess what: He has. He doesn't mind telling me, and then gives me this dirty wink like she's kind of easy ride"
-"Charming."
-"Charming or maybe just telling it like it is -There's some right old skangers out there, truth be told, give us a bad name and all, letting the side down and no consideration. Well at least I get a better picture of who I'm dealing with here."
-"I guess it does. But what's with Gloria, meanwhile? She 'still tending to her guests while yous are discussing literature or does she butt in with her size 14 to have a go herself?"
-"A-ha, funny you should mention her. Cos' yes indeed, all the time I'm very much aware of our Gloria you bet. So what I do, right? I sort of find myself steering your man away from her towards the bar."
-"How understandable -you must have been right parched."
-"Desperately so."
-"Do carry on."
-"Now then. To be fair, your man doesn't put up much resistance and soon we find ourselves partaking of a few beverages -mainly alcoholic, I seem to note. Then I suggest maybe we could step outside for a quick smoke. Outside as in... far from that bunch of envious bitches who are giving him the eye nonstop. Guess what? Your man turns out to be a smoker himself -well he is French after all- and so we go. As for Gloria? Brown bread, not to be seen again."
-"Poor old Gloria."
-"Poor old Gloria. Pity, really: She looked so fetching in her polyester red dress and green carnation. Killer combination of blue eyeshadow and leather sandals."
-"Ah yes, she's not been the same since she split up with your man has she. Lost her reason for living I guess ...or for making the papers. Oh well."
-"One nil to Georgie!"
-"Happy days!"
-"Happy days or... happy night..."
-"Happy -happy night?? What 'you telling me here, Georgie Develin? Let me get this right so. Yous two step out for a smoke -Then what? what happens next? Yous clearly didn't just exchange numbers, did you... did you close the deal?"
Georgie does her funny voice again.
-"I'd say we did..."
-"You did? Outside the Shelbourne??"
-"'Course not, not at the Shelbs silly! Back at my pad. Didn't have much time to ourselves sadly: He had to go get ready for some highfaluting yoke taking place today, he couldn't stay"
(Do they ever!)
"So I had to give him a certain something to remember me by, like ... which I was very happy to provide. And he certainly will. Remember me and all."
-"Ohmygod! Did you really?? Why you... And has he called since?"
-"He has, he has. Been good as gold. Said he would call and call he did, the very next day. That is to say earlier on tonight. Oh yes, I have high hopes for this young man. We've made plans to meet over the weekend."
Poor old Gloria... Sometimes I feel we're being too harsh on her; I mean, she's not that old really.
But that's the thing though, it's got nothing to do with age actually, let alone with her real one. G. and I started calling everyone "old trout" way back when in our teens. Aged thirteen, you see someone who's sixteen they're like, from another world altogether! And when I say sixteen, what when they're twenty! They lead a complete different existence hovering over us, it's like they know so much already, been there, done it and done it all, you and them don't have anything in common and you're just this little squirt, all pigtails and black spots staring anxiously at your bedroom mirrror when here they are, so confident and self-assured, they tower over you and show you up you with their make-up done proper and incidental sense of identity. You look at them and think, See her, she can walk in any pub no bother, she can pick up anyone she fancies ...she doesn't have to report home for tea. When you're thirteen, everyone ahead deserves your jealousy.
And so we once were thirteen, Georgie and me; then it was our turn to turn sixteen... eighteen... and twenty. Now when you're twenty, someone twenty-five is like mature, and someone thirty a right old fart. That's just the way it is, life ploughs on relentless, and our own landmarks get pushed back accordingly.
Now poor old Gloria may be no more than thirty-three going on twenty-eight, us two bitches still need her held back somehow. We need her to remain this slightly more aged figure so that we can enjoy our youth to the max, knowing she'll always be a reference point that allows us to still feel like teenagers (how much longer can we still be allowed to behave like late teenagers being another question altogether!). So we keep her at bay, we cut her down to size. We make a point of distancing ourselves from her any which way we can find. Can you believe the gall of the girl, totally nails it Lily, our Gloria's one of these people who speak about themselves in the third person!?!
"I
See A Bad Moon Rising"
(need to work on that, pad it up maybe? nah, that'll do!)
And here they are, Lily Monaghan's very own Words Of Doom:
-First one that gets my goat: "It's alright for some!" Usually offered in a faux casual tone by someone who clearly doesn't resent other people either only jetting off to enjoy the holiday they have saved for all year long or simply splashing the money they have rightfully earned. Either case, that's proper pathetic! And that goes straight into my little black book.
-"What are you looking so pleased about!" is another mystery of a remark. See, I would have thought that looking pleased generally gives the game away. Surely, it shouldn't take a genius to work out the mood of the person smiling... But no, there always has to be someone with a chip on his shoulder to bristle at the sight of a happy face and remind them that life is the auld valley of tears essetera. You know what though? Sometimes the sun shines -even in Dublin Town?! So make the most of it, gobshite! Enjoy!
-"Cheer up luv', it might never happen!" Now then. Let's take a deep breath shall we? ....... Ah that's better. ...... "It might never happen", classic of classics. Whoever came up first with this baffling observation blatantly wasn't from this planet. He doesn't get life. Like, hellllo already yeah, am I flogging a dead horse here or what?? Are you for real??? That it might never happen is precisely the point!! Durr!! No need to waste any more time on this or I'll burst a vein.
-Here's a classic one: "Says he's gonna leave her" aka the married man syndrome and two-timer's waiting game. Why of course he will! In your dreams, girl!! (Here Lily shakes her fist at her PC screen and has a good mind to go and brew herself some camomile.) And so the duplicitous charade is guaranteed to continue, sometimes for years on end, until your mate kept on a chain finally comes to her senses and decides to move on. Talk is cheap loverat, and I move on myself (albeit only to my next item eh).
-"I think maybe we should spend less time together..." Less time as in not one minute more if they can help it. Oh, you will freeze as the fateful words drip down the line, usually followed by a pause (Pauses: always at risk to become pregnant) and may even fall for it. This is where the newcomers at the game of life get it wrong. They wonder, they ask: "Spend less time together... Sure, why not. If that works better for you. I suppose, how inconsiderate of me really, of course, I never realised how busy you were, is so understandable, I should probably apologise for taking so much of your time already sweetypie -And how long did you have in mind, then? Is it OK if I only call in tomorrow instead of tonight? Huh? Huh? Eh? Allo?? ...Anybody out there??"
-"Penny for your thoughts..." Less explicitly loaded than some other Words Of Doom but just as dangerous. Auntie Lily's advice is simple: Never fall for it. If you do, you will either let him know that the subject presently occupying your brains is what's left for tea tonight or the awful B.O. emanating from his person today. Either way it won't be the desired response. So why not go for the easy option and offer: "Why, I was just thinking about you Buttercheeks!" Men love it when you call them "Buttercheeks".
-"I was going to tell you!" -except that he didn't. Even structurally, it doesn't hold water, being a standard protestation based on an empty promise which can never be disproved. Variations include: "Oh yeah, about that er... you're gonna laugh! Serious. I probably ought to have told you before, was just about to, meant to, I swear. Was on the tip of my tongue, funny I just forgot, never had the chance. Never had the chance to tell you about: the time I spent inside / the ban from the US / the glamour photos / the tat' / the second mobile / my kids, it was such a long time ago after all / that and the other thing." More often than not, they were "only messin'" and sadly nobody else got the joke. See, they were young and needed the money, they didn't think you'd mind, it wasn't such a big deal in the great scheme of things, then they usually add: "Ah you know yourself, know-what-I-mean!" -"Actually, no I don't" is the logical answer. "It was all a bit of fun y'know?" -"Nope, still don't". They were coming to this, they swear, meant to tell you, were waiting for the right moment, and then it just... It just slipped their mind it did! Funny that, eh?
Funny.
-"Right, that's it. This is the year yeah, this is the year I get really fit, right? Like -totally buff! Proper healthy. Ripped. Tighter than feck. I'm gonna hit the gym something massive, feel the burn baby! I'm -like- totally gonna sign up for the program and lose these love handles, won't stop til I shed at least a couple of stones -You watch me." Tumbleweed rolls by in the background...
And finally in our choice selection:
-"It's not you, it's me." No it isn't. It really is me (i.e. "you") not you (i.e. "me"). Now some people might be tempted to end the conversation upon hearing these words and will slam the phone down as hard as they can while expleting various choice terms (we'll prudely opt for "What tha!! Is it written "stoopid" all over me face??") but that reaction is not helpful. It won't address the issue. Let's try instead to keep our wits. It's a big ask admittedly, but let's try to understand what's going on. ... Now then. There is clearly some damage limitation exercise going on here, some attempt at self-incrimination. Your man / woman (delete as applicable) is at least trying to lessen the blow and our question must be: Is this somehow acceptable then? Should we give at least credit for intention? Should we consider the hypothesis that it might actually be "them"? ...Shoud we feck yeah. Credit me sack ya weasely bag a shite!! You are being dumped here sister, and are also being provided with the reason, albeit in a roundabout way! What "they"'re saying is that A) you've been put on trial, and B) you haven't passed Munster. You've been deemed unworthy. Cue crashing sound -that will be your self-esteem, soon joined by your willingness to ever confide in anyone again.
"Ladies and gentlemen... Fugazi!"
Tuesday night and -very likely against my better judgement- His Hotness and I are off to see a band. Earlier this afternoon, got a phonecall from an excited Mathieu:
"Hey Lily Lily, I have tickets for tonight! You wannna come!"
Tickets? tickets for what? It's not the sales yet -Is there a film premiere in town? Surely I would have heard... Is Kylie on? Has Liam Neeson returned to the stage? What's the story?
-"Er... hello first and thanks a million but... what tickets would that be, who's playing?"
-"It's for a concert of keurse, to see a band: they are -er- super interesting, yes they are great!"
Rock bands rock bands... now cool your jets for a second: Did I ever express any interest, was I ever consulted? Plus do I really want to go out tonight? (PMT TMI QED and all that.) I feel distinctly underwhelmed at the prospect.
Mathieu must have sensed my reluctance:
-"Ah keum on now Lily, oh you meust come -I've two tickets!"
Hmm. Well. What's the big rush about?
-"Hmm. Now who are they, first? Who's that playing?"
-"They're called Fugazi. Fugazi and aneuther one called the Jesus Lizaaar'"
(Fugawhat??)
-"Are they Japanese?"
-"No no they're OK: American."
Right so. Well I... am not too sure, to be honest... If you ask(ed) me, what I really fancy tonight looks more like a water bottle! A nice cup of tea and off to bed. Can I get out of this? What if I suggested Georgie instead? Heh! Here's an idea! What if I offered she take my place?
-"Hmm not too sure, and where's it at?"
-"Heuh?"
-"Where 'they playing? Not too far, is it? It's not like Slane Castle or something?" (clutching at last straws here -of course it wouldn't be)
-"No no it's at... Will Ann, it's at Will Ann."
Damn! Just twenty minutes from here then (fifty in daytime).
-"Well I'm... very flattered you thought of me when you went and got these tickets Mathieu, but"
-"Oh no, I didn't get the tickets in fact"
-"Eh?"
-"I didn't get the tickets, Laurent and Fédéric did."
Who??
-"Who?"
-"You knoooow: Laurent and Frédéric -You met them at the Alliance!"
Ah yes, the smoking beardos.
-"Ah yes, your gentlemen librarian friends."
-"The Toulousains. Well -ha ha ha, listen to this- what happened, yeah? what happened, they were -er- really excited about this concert, they leuuuuve that band you know? and today they see that they can't go! They bought the tickets and they can't go!"
-"Oh dear. How unfortunate, that."
-"Yeah that's really bad! They bought the tickets for this band they super love and now they can't do it!"
-"Do what?"
-"Do it -go to the concert!!"
-"Ah yes, they can't make it and so, presumably, great friend that you are, up you stepped and offered to buy them up"
-"No no, no way, I got the tickets for neuthing, you meust be joking!" (all triumphant, I can almost feel the radiance of his joy heating up my handset)
-"Oh. Great. Bully for you."
-"So now we have to go, we'll enjeuy it: it's free!"
-"Sure"
...and this is when I automatically replied "sure" (D'oh!!!).
-"Perfect, so you're keuming with me then, we go and we have free fun -but you must pick me up for when we go: I don't know where this Will Ann room is."
(Well here's a thought: why not google it up and then you'll be able to locate where Whelan's is, sweety?)
Having thus committed myself, I then made sure that these two bands were worth the drive and came highly recommended:
Dixit Mathieu: "Oh yes they're great, very interesting. Er no, I've never seem them."
Dixit JohnnyRay: "Never heard of them. Sounds to me like another bunch of mincing moanies, yeah."
and now I'm on my way to good old Whelan's with a positively effervescent dreamboat in my car. Romeo seems particularly proud of the manner in which he got hold of these highly coveted tickets (i.e for zilch):
"You know, everyone wants to see them, everyone: they are big stars! A bit like Chris de Borg! Fred was telling me -he was disgueusted-, he bought the tickets three months ago, the day they went on sale and the next day -guess what?- they were all gone! Ha ha ha ha, super! They were all gone! That is -er- so interesting! When I will tell it to my friends in Paree, they'll be sooo jealous! Brilliant!
From what I'm understanding, the Jesus Lizaaar' and Fugazi, they're very punk yes, very punk -but with interesting ideas you know, very artistic. Laurent says they are intellectueul -I approve, me, yes I approve -I like bands that are different from other bands"
-"Uh
huh"
-"Yes yes very different, for example in the way they play the guitar. The guitar and also the bass guitar. And dreums. Laurent says they play the dreums very differently. It's all very exciting, Laurent says."
-"Right you are."
Right now, if there's something I could really get excited about would be somewhere to park -Anywhere will do frankly! Bunch of parking space thieves, where do they all come from? ..... This is doing my bonce in. Need to think sharp. If I can't find anything close, we may just have to go all the way to the club and then walk back all the way down Wexford Street oh joy, can't think of any other way, anywhere else is a no-go... Is it any wonder, everyone knows the number of cars in Dublin has multiplied three-fold in the last twenty years! Three-fold. As for the amount of car-parks...
"They are a very artistic band, with lots of good melodies" on rabbits Mathieu "Yes yes, they are very good -everybody wants to see them so..."
I refrain from telling Mathieu that Whelan's and The Village are not exactly the biggest venues in the world, catering as they do for a rather discriminating clientele. Whelan's and the Village is where "indie" bands come to ply their trade. If his band were any big they wouldn't be sharing sweat here, they'd be playing The Ambassador or lording it at the RDS / The Point. And for those who make it to the top of the world, they do Slane Castle. That would be your Madonnas, Bruce Springsteens and of course U2s. ...ColdHeat never made it to Slane Castle.
-"Yes yes very different, for example in the way they play the guitar. The guitar and also the bass guitar. And dreums. Laurent says they play the dreums very differently. It's all very exciting, Laurent says."
-"Right you are."
Right now, if there's something I could really get excited about would be somewhere to park -Anywhere will do frankly! Bunch of parking space thieves, where do they all come from? ..... This is doing my bonce in. Need to think sharp. If I can't find anything close, we may just have to go all the way to the club and then walk back all the way down Wexford Street oh joy, can't think of any other way, anywhere else is a no-go... Is it any wonder, everyone knows the number of cars in Dublin has multiplied three-fold in the last twenty years! Three-fold. As for the amount of car-parks...
"They are a very artistic band, with lots of good melodies" on rabbits Mathieu "Yes yes, they are very good -everybody wants to see them so..."
I refrain from telling Mathieu that Whelan's and The Village are not exactly the biggest venues in the world, catering as they do for a rather discriminating clientele. Whelan's and the Village is where "indie" bands come to ply their trade. If his band were any big they wouldn't be sharing sweat here, they'd be playing The Ambassador or lording it at the RDS / The Point. And for those who make it to the top of the world, they do Slane Castle. That would be your Madonnas, Bruce Springsteens and of course U2s. ...ColdHeat never made it to Slane Castle.
But
this I'll keep to myself. After all, we don't want to be raining over our
cherub's parade do we? Just look at his little cheeks glowing with excitement
and his big goofy grin! God love him, he's all panting and ready to go... But
I'm thinking. I'm thinking hey Romeo, since I'm doing taxi again, can I expect
something in return? Surely that's not too much to ask...? You know, some
"quality time" this coming weekend, just you and me... Wouldn't it be
nice? Huh? But that -clearly- will have to be for some other day. Right now
let's check this Fugue Aziz.
I eventually find a place near a pub -there seems to be a few in the area- and then we take the long walk back, it's only a dozen blocks eh. "Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Quick quick, or we'll miss the start!" We eventually make it to the venue to M's visible relief. Picture the scene. Dublin in the rain, night-time. A group of younglings are huddled outside, scaring the bejesus out of common folks: they are of course smoking. They are smoking and I'm thinking, any second now and Mathieu will follow suit. Mathieu follows suit.
Ah, good old Whelan's... brings back memories so it does -Who did we see again, me and Georgie? If it wasn't The Sultans Of Ping FC! "Where's me jumper! Where's me jumper! Where's me jumper!" for up to 2 minutes, oh happy days... It was either here or The Village. I would have been wearing my totally swanky rah-rah skirt and leather jacket combination I imagine; as for Georgie, she would probably have still been going through her Sade-meets-Duran Duran period (meaning head tilting earrings and bleached fringe, the works). And a gas gig it was too, if I remember... The student audience were fired up to their bollocks that night and the Cork man onstage was having none of it. As much as I recall -snakebite might have some explaining to do- things got a little messy near the end and much cracking of skulls got inflicted upon moshing participants yes. Bodies were seen flying from the stage, albeit horizontally and not always of their own accord. Good times, innocent days. Ah sure we knew how to enjoy ourselves back then! Talking of which, I just wonder if the Sultans are still going... That'd be too weird if they still did. Pogoing forty-somethings, just imagine! Or the Frank and Walters. Whatever happened to the Frank and Walters? Well hopefully, they're still at it. For all I know, they could be the usual. That is, they could be big-in-Japan.
I eventually find a place near a pub -there seems to be a few in the area- and then we take the long walk back, it's only a dozen blocks eh. "Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Quick quick, or we'll miss the start!" We eventually make it to the venue to M's visible relief. Picture the scene. Dublin in the rain, night-time. A group of younglings are huddled outside, scaring the bejesus out of common folks: they are of course smoking. They are smoking and I'm thinking, any second now and Mathieu will follow suit. Mathieu follows suit.
Ah, good old Whelan's... brings back memories so it does -Who did we see again, me and Georgie? If it wasn't The Sultans Of Ping FC! "Where's me jumper! Where's me jumper! Where's me jumper!" for up to 2 minutes, oh happy days... It was either here or The Village. I would have been wearing my totally swanky rah-rah skirt and leather jacket combination I imagine; as for Georgie, she would probably have still been going through her Sade-meets-Duran Duran period (meaning head tilting earrings and bleached fringe, the works). And a gas gig it was too, if I remember... The student audience were fired up to their bollocks that night and the Cork man onstage was having none of it. As much as I recall -snakebite might have some explaining to do- things got a little messy near the end and much cracking of skulls got inflicted upon moshing participants yes. Bodies were seen flying from the stage, albeit horizontally and not always of their own accord. Good times, innocent days. Ah sure we knew how to enjoy ourselves back then! Talking of which, I just wonder if the Sultans are still going... That'd be too weird if they still did. Pogoing forty-somethings, just imagine! Or the Frank and Walters. Whatever happened to the Frank and Walters? Well hopefully, they're still at it. For all I know, they could be the usual. That is, they could be big-in-Japan.
And
so, only a dozen years later, I darken this doorway once more. I expect
tonight's rebels to be somewhat different yeah. More
"artistiiiiques", dixit someone. Photos of various rabble rousers in
action adorn the walls of the entrance. Bands like Sparklehorse, Smog, Nada
Surf, Daisy Chainsaw, New Model Army, the What -I don't recognise a single
name.
Through the corridor, into the venue proper. A literal wall of sweat hits me smack in the face -Ewww!! What in the name?? Feels like we've stepped in a sauna! What did M. say about tickets selling out in a flash again? It's certainly packed in here! Hordes have turned up, and all in high -like pretty high, knowwhatImean?- spirits. Serious mayhem is threatening, I'm dead impressed and not a little frightened, could it be that tonight's bunch are genuinely for real? At least they've got some proper mental following... Must shift a decent amount of units; should I expect these American punksters on "The Late Late Show" next? (And then "HotPress" will declare they were sooo much better before they started oh yes...) I am ready to get bowled over -but not literally, eh- and I can't help wondering: ...Are they as good as Nickelback?
Through the corridor, into the venue proper. A literal wall of sweat hits me smack in the face -Ewww!! What in the name?? Feels like we've stepped in a sauna! What did M. say about tickets selling out in a flash again? It's certainly packed in here! Hordes have turned up, and all in high -like pretty high, knowwhatImean?- spirits. Serious mayhem is threatening, I'm dead impressed and not a little frightened, could it be that tonight's bunch are genuinely for real? At least they've got some proper mental following... Must shift a decent amount of units; should I expect these American punksters on "The Late Late Show" next? (And then "HotPress" will declare they were sooo much better before they started oh yes...) I am ready to get bowled over -but not literally, eh- and I can't help wondering: ...Are they as good as Nickelback?
One thing I'm not too impressed with though, is the general clotheswear on show tonight. Depressingly pedestrian.
Whatever happened to punks? Aren't this bunch supposed to be the type? Can't their fans like get their thumbs out or are they too hip to be bothered? Herself for one is not impressed, hell no. I scope, I check, I despair. Where are the electrocuted spikes hairdos? the safety pin held tops a la Lizzie Hurley?? the tasteful swastika t-shirts such as the diamond one sported by Becks The Man Himself??? the mad coloured barnets, eyebrows and nostril hairs???? the piercings through the piercings????? For crying out loud, Mathieu himself is more daring in his parka and Converse trainers! What a sartorial let-down and no mistake... Massive downer. This being said, I can spot a few Marilyn Manson characters holding court in a corner. They are so loud I instantly know they're Italian.
I also spot a few dilated pupils in attendance -and that won't be because of the light wink wink!!- as a number of reprobates seem to have already got tanked up ready to go... It's in the air, it's all around, it's like a massive energy flowing right through the place and everyone looks dead on edge like they're ready to explode. If anything, it's pretty much like standing outside Brown Thomas waiting for the annual sales to kick off, that kind of vibe.
Which tends to worry me, though. I mean, the venue is already tight as a monkey's nuts, the audience is clearly one riff away from going mental, and tonight's headliners are not even in the building! "This is the shit", Mathieu graciously informs me. It sure is, what with this excitable bunch already cranking up the decibels to eleven ("Com'on!" "Bring it on!") -not for them to sit down and wait like the good boys they're all undoubtedly are. No stylish late entrance for them either (like the ones myself and Georgie indulge in when we go on parade at some function or another). Like I said, everyone's already here and clearly ready to rumble (more "Com'ons!" "Bring it ons!" "Aciiiid! Aciiiid! Anyone 'seen a dog called Acid?" etc.). In fact the question is: what will happen when the show finally kicks off? These Lizards'd better hurry up before the tension spills over prematurely. Bouncers are seen talking into their fists and barricading themselves in front of the stage -any moment now.
But first we need a drink. Cos' that's what people do at gigs: First thing, they need to down a few. And so Mathieu and I elbow our way barwards. ...Turns out we're not the only ones. The queue relating to the aforementioned happiness dispensing facility appears to be leading somewhere far off... somewhere pretty much level with the cloakroom down the stairs. Better not be too thirsty tonight then, which suits me fine since I'm driving.
This reminds me of that deadly story about The P****s, which I don't fail to tell Mathieu. Back in the days, as our greatest pre-U2 exports prepared to set off on one of their tours, they -allegedly, naturally- came up with a lethal plan to secure venues. On the face of it, they would not ask for a huge amount of dosh upfront; they would keep it very reasonable. Rookie promoters could not believe their luck and booked them solid. Why, they could get themselves this new sensation for less than expected -eat your heart out, ruthless music business! Trebles all round! And so the P****s got their tour sorted in no time, with them various promoters rubbing their hands dry at the prospect of making a killing for themselves. ...And then they surveyed the damage the morning after.
In the terms and conditions stated for their appearance, the mischievous miscreants were alleged to have inserted a clause stipulating that they were to have unlimited access to the bar facilities all night. Yep, unlimited access for themselves -and also, naturally, for their "entourage".
Cue half of the Irish diaspora in every town visited turning up for the gig and getting promptly invited by their new close friends to stick around and get shitfaced for free afterwards (I'm only ever so exaggerating) -Pity the Student Union promoters who fell for it! The P****s had to find other venues for their next tour. The end.
Now obviously I can't get more than a pint at best, but I have the feeling Mathieu is quite happy to drink for two. He certainly tries his damned best to get served. Only ten minutes later and stranded in the middle of an all-sweating all-shoving maelstrom, he imperiously waves a five Euro note at the girls behind the bar. His cunning move is sadly met with utter indifference from the natives -oh the indignity. Wave, wave, wave / Stonewall. All this laser eye contact with the honeys for nothing, surely this must be a first, this must be bewildering for him... Your man doesn't like it one bit. "What is gueuing on here! Tell me Lily! This is unacceptabeul! In Paree, I would get served already yeah!" I hesitate to tell him: maybe he hasn't noticed the five or six people in line before him, maybe he doesn't know that bar-staff is unlikely to be impressed by his semaphore. In any case, a Fiver won't get him much change around here -but that's another story he'll soon find out for himself. (How can he not know, though? Shouldn't he be aware of the prices in town already?)
Anyway, while the culturel exploreuuur resigns himself to suffer his fate and queue like the rest of us this side of the Channel, I decide to take this opportunity to make my way towards the stage. A yard closer and that's my way done alright. Loud yelps suddenly erupt in the rowdy crowd: a very pretty girl dressed from head to toe in denim, no more than eighteen, has emerged from the side and steps up to the mike. She is armed with a guitar. Yelps increase in volume ("Bring it on!" "Come on now!" "Show your tats out for the lads!" "Up the Dubs!"). She defiantly switches her instrument on and mandatory Larsen follows ("Hey there, d'you need any help with that luv'?"). She turns red and turns it down. A bassist and a drummer, not much older, join her onstage. With an accent unmistakingly Dub, the first act introduces herself -can't catch her name- and mumbles something about what a great honour it is to be sharing a stage with blah blah blah, more crowd rowdiness follows ("Com'on now, com'on!" "Kick it!!"). I wonder: Is that it? Is she "the Jesus Lizard"?
"Who 'she?" I ask my neighbour.
"That's Leanne Harte!" indignantlies he.
Why of course! That's Leanne Harte... (???) Leanne's wearing one of these heavy metal belts with studs and things that I would have sworn went extinct twenty years ago. The studs sparkle under the spotlights -very snazzy. This, coupled with her denim attire, give her a distinctly old school look that continues to confound my sartorial expectations for tonight. "Very street" decides the fashion expert.
Without further ado, the denimed one strikes a power chord that strips paint off the rafters and here we go: Rock out!! Leanne is in the house!! Kick it (or whatever it is greaseballs say)!! I'm totally down with it me... only massive. Kick it. Rock n' Roll. Go get 'em. In the hole. Well, something along those lines.
Fringe
firmly cascaded over her eyes, our Leanne starts torturing her instrument like
there's no tomorrow. Ahem ... she is quite loud, one note to oneself. I start
to rue my decision not to take earplugs with me, the kind I used to wear when
me old man was doing his own thing onstage and I used to watch him from the
safety of my pram, utterly perplexed. Plus ca change eh... plus le rock's the
same. Meanwhile, our girl unleashes some serious shit out there, her intricate
riffs up and down the guitar neck thingy doing duel with the booming bass lines
(and your man behind the drums proving himself no slouch either) -Feck me if
she can't handle that guitar something tasty! Makes you wonder if she ever
allows herself a manicure... would it interfere with her playing? Huh. I watch
her for another thunderous tick or two, then look around the place. What a
surprise: The miss seems to be attracting a lot of attention from the male
portion of the crowd. Grown men, plastic glass of frothy in hand, study her
intently; I'd say their average age is twice hers. Young Leanne mistreats her
guitar some more.
Now I remember reading about these girl bands back in Japan (that would have been in one of the quality mags such as "Heat", "Hello", "OK", "Closer" or "The Indo", something classy like that). Apparently, there's like this whole industry down there, totally devoted to creating pop idols: nubiles on a conveyor belt is the idea. What record labels do is, they select young wans -no more than 13 years old if not younger- and drill them into pop star material. They mould them into disposable pop bands, getting them to front plastic acts that mime hit singles cooked up by corporate songwriting teams. And off they go, the little soldiers for the music / video industry! Now what happens is the young wans fulfil their totally artistic mission, they burn it up for a couple of summers ...and then are duly retired for younger models as soon as they hit a certain age (17? 18? Something like that). "Next!" It's time for their replacement... And the thing is, the article was saying, the thing is, were you to attend one of their gigs, you'd hardly find any similarly aged spectator close in attendance oh no. The front rows of their gigs will be taken over by middle-aged fellows brandishing an army of superduper cameras, intently snapping each and every gesture the little mitts make, not to mention every pose they take. Now get this right. These guys will be snapping away pressed right up against the stage, just a few feet below the performers -'Yous with me yet? That's right, what these sad pervs are mainly interested in is, er... Well, that won't be the little angels' singing abilities, now that's for sure! ewwww!! Eat your heart out Simon Cowell, you wouldn't expect that kind of behaviour 'round here... :-((
A handful of songs storm by and our very own Dub little soldier finishes her set. She exits the stage under much wolf-whistling and hand-clapping. "My er... album is, er, available at the back... onlytwelveEurothankyous".
Stage-hands instantly appear and set about clearing the place for the next act. They own the stage and they know it. Young Leanne's amp gets a good kicking and is sent flying into touch, soon followed by the drum kit (minus seated drummer though). Stage-hands sport pony tails on their heads and utility belts off their bellies, that's how you recognise them. I already know their kind: They're usually called "Spidy" on account of the tattoos covering their necks and like nothing better but to draw peckers with their flash-lamps once the lights have gone down. This reminds me: Where the Bono is Mathieu? Still hasn't reappeared from his drink gathering mission! Could do with a Coke me, I'm like melting...
Now I remember reading about these girl bands back in Japan (that would have been in one of the quality mags such as "Heat", "Hello", "OK", "Closer" or "The Indo", something classy like that). Apparently, there's like this whole industry down there, totally devoted to creating pop idols: nubiles on a conveyor belt is the idea. What record labels do is, they select young wans -no more than 13 years old if not younger- and drill them into pop star material. They mould them into disposable pop bands, getting them to front plastic acts that mime hit singles cooked up by corporate songwriting teams. And off they go, the little soldiers for the music / video industry! Now what happens is the young wans fulfil their totally artistic mission, they burn it up for a couple of summers ...and then are duly retired for younger models as soon as they hit a certain age (17? 18? Something like that). "Next!" It's time for their replacement... And the thing is, the article was saying, the thing is, were you to attend one of their gigs, you'd hardly find any similarly aged spectator close in attendance oh no. The front rows of their gigs will be taken over by middle-aged fellows brandishing an army of superduper cameras, intently snapping each and every gesture the little mitts make, not to mention every pose they take. Now get this right. These guys will be snapping away pressed right up against the stage, just a few feet below the performers -'Yous with me yet? That's right, what these sad pervs are mainly interested in is, er... Well, that won't be the little angels' singing abilities, now that's for sure! ewwww!! Eat your heart out Simon Cowell, you wouldn't expect that kind of behaviour 'round here... :-((
A handful of songs storm by and our very own Dub little soldier finishes her set. She exits the stage under much wolf-whistling and hand-clapping. "My er... album is, er, available at the back... onlytwelveEurothankyous".
Stage-hands instantly appear and set about clearing the place for the next act. They own the stage and they know it. Young Leanne's amp gets a good kicking and is sent flying into touch, soon followed by the drum kit (minus seated drummer though). Stage-hands sport pony tails on their heads and utility belts off their bellies, that's how you recognise them. I already know their kind: They're usually called "Spidy" on account of the tattoos covering their necks and like nothing better but to draw peckers with their flash-lamps once the lights have gone down. This reminds me: Where the Bono is Mathieu? Still hasn't reappeared from his drink gathering mission! Could do with a Coke me, I'm like melting...
If
that were any possible, the atmosphere about the place has now turned even more
electric. With the opening act gone, the audience are starting to smell blood.
I note a new age range taking up position at the front (also known as "the
mashed pit"), more of the athletic type and with brutal shorter than short
crew-cuts. They pierce right through the throng of old fogies and head straight
up for the battlefront. ...Sadly I precisely belong to the throng of old
fogies. Caught in the changing of the guard, I can't extricate myself fast
enough and soon get thrown about -I'm literally swept off my feet! Huh, huh,
"scuse me", "sorry", nothing doing -the ebb and flow
carries me in its wake and I have no choice but to follow. Do I not enjoy that,
oh not one bit! Can't even turn my head round, can't be looking for Mathieu!
For all I know, the fecker may still be queuing for the bar -and so I find
myself bouncing.
Boiiing,
boiiing, boiiing.
"No ham shanking if yer kippin' in me scratcher d'you hear?"
"No ham shanking if yer kippin' in me scratcher d'you hear?"
"It
never was a free let alone a penal, your man barely touched him!"
"But he was miiiiiiles offside!"
"Ya big spanner, I'd have torn the skanger a new one I would!"
"Right boys, I'm off to shake hands with the unemployed -Buzz me when it starts yeah?"
"And I was like "huh", "'da fuck??" Didn't know whether to shit or get a haircut!?"
"But he was miiiiiiles offside!"
"Ya big spanner, I'd have torn the skanger a new one I would!"
"Right boys, I'm off to shake hands with the unemployed -Buzz me when it starts yeah?"
"And I was like "huh", "'da fuck??" Didn't know whether to shit or get a haircut!?"
-"And
how's your band coming along?"
-"Grand!
Just grand! We've got a couple of new songs... They totally rock, man!"
-"Yeah...
ours neither."
"Is
that true they'll jump you if you light up? I'm all for being right-on and shit
but, hey"
"And
I was like, "huh", and she goes, "huh" -I'm like,
"whatever yeah!""
"Like,
totally, dude -Can't let them get away with it!"
"Ma che cosa dice??"
I'm desperately trying to swim against the tide here, where oh where is Mathieu? Why did I ever choose to get closer to the stage in the first place, what in the name possessed me! Should have known better I mean... What was I thinking without any protection from the great unwashed?? /grr :-((/
"Ma che cosa dice??"
I'm desperately trying to swim against the tide here, where oh where is Mathieu? Why did I ever choose to get closer to the stage in the first place, what in the name possessed me! Should have known better I mean... What was I thinking without any protection from the great unwashed?? /grr :-((/
"Yeah I 'seen them, like... ten years ago man -They ripped the place apart! They were bodies flying all over place, much breaking of bones and shit y'know? Your man himself got knocked out! Knocked right out, he did. Bleeding everywhere he was -the band never stopped playing though, oh happy days..."
-"Paid the full wack: Thirty bleedin' Euro!!"
-"Got it for free."
"Seriously though, a 'tache can soak up to ten percent of your beer -surely doesn't make economic sense to"
"That's nothing dude: I used to snort E's up me brown!"
"Shit you not mate! Next time you see Aoife, check out the noddies on her... D'you reckon she's good for the goose?"
-"Did your missus last night, man -And she wasn't worth the two Euro!!"
-"Ah she's a cute little hoor alright -Hope she passed you her hepatitis"
"I'd have to say man, I don't have much truck with this bollix. "No man is an island" me brown! Think about it though: Man's a human being, right? And an island is a maritime based tectonic plates crash occurrence, knowworramean?"
-"One-bagger or two-bagger?"
-"Two-bagger man, I ren as soon as me spuds were done!"
Slowly but surely I do manage to slide ever so slightly between the packed bodies:
"'Scuse me fellas / 'scuse me / sorry / sorry there, didn't see you / coming through / 'scuse me!"
At last I spot Mathieu. He's safely perched on top of the stairs, and proudly holds a plastic glass. 'Sweetie must have been looking for me everywhere I reckon, but not exactly being the tallest in the height department, I didn't register on his radar. Should have sprayed my hair day-glow, that'd have done the trick! In a strange way of us two, he turns out to have made the right choice when he decided to stay behind and wait to get served -That'll learn me for trying to be cute. So there he is now, literally lording it above the fray while I'm still elbowing my way to safety down below. On another day he'd be about -oh- all of five seconds away from me. In the present circumstance... a good ten minutes of assault course madness.
"'Scuse me, 'scuse me"
-"Hey there... and where you think you're going?"
Big bloke. No hair. Dressed black on black.
-(?!?) "This way!" ( -------> )
-"Not so fast not so fast, we've only just met. Besides, you can't go through here: See?" ( <------- )
It's jam-packed solid. Nothing moving. ( - )
"Why d'you wanna go anyways? The Lizard are about to come on"
-"I... It's a bit too mental for me, y'know? Don't feel too well"
-"Right you are it's focken mental!! It's a focken honour to see Fugazi and the Lizard!! Just you wait till Dave Yeow comes on, he's proper hardcore"
-"Dave Who?"
-"Dave Yeow -He's the singer"
-"Oh, yeah"
-"The real thing he is. So. ... You're up for a bit of "Wheelchair Epidemic" then?"
-"Wheelchair what??"
-""Wheelchair Epi"-Right. I see. ... Tell me now young lady, you don't seem to know much about the Lizard now, do you?"
-"Nope."
-"And Fugazi?"
-"Neither."
-"Right so... Huh, well in that case let me suggest you brace yourself love, you might want to"
A huge roar erupts behind me. (Behind me... that is to say ahead of us, should I face the opposite.) (Which I'm not.) (Hence -er- behind my behind.) A huge roar erupts then, which leads me to conclude the second band are making their entrance. Quick quick! Get me out of here! As the crowd surges forward, it creates a vacuum effect in its wake which suits me just fine, I might just about get repelled... Yyyyyyyyyyes, one more push and I'll be safe! Safe!
"Driiiiing, driiiing, bong!" Somewhere behind me, the rock 'n rollers test their guitars. Their guitars duly respond.
"One two two, one two!" It's now the turn of someone sounding already hoarse.
One more push... Only one more push and I'm home and dry... On any day, all I'd have to do is open my mouth and Mathieu would hear me. He would hear me loud and clear.
"One two two one two -just you wait motherfucker"
I slide an arm between two bodies and insert my right shoulder. Next step is my head, 'need to be brave, 'need to be brave and grab my chance by the balls. Dare I risk it through the sweaty opening? I feel like a baby emerging! I slip a leg through, I'm now technically one half already there...
"Alright ladiesngenlemen, we are"
-"Com' on you focker now com' on!!"
-"the Jesus Lizard and we're very pleased to (something?) with you tonight"
-"Com' on ya bunch a pussies!!"
-"so we ONE TA THREE FOUR"
All hell breaks loose. There's no other way to describe it.
All
hell breaks loose and I swear to God if one half of my body -the one stuck
between two perfect strangers- doesn't find itself literally flying through the
air! Holly Molly! The other half, meanwhile, remains very much standing on its
remaining foot as I discover new perspectives in gravity.
Then
it gets worse.
Before
I know it, the melee to which my squeezed half belongs surges forward and I am
dragged (or should it be pulled?) backwards (or should it be forwards?) into
the fray. One leg up, one leg down. My right side sandwiched between the
brutes, my left side offering a surely unflattering view of my anatomy:
Aaaaaahhhhhh! I am desperately trying to get some leverage here, anywhere will
do.
"Hey, hey -Wait! Wait!! Hold it there guys! Hold it th"
But the young braves get down with it and start pumping their fists in the air -or whatever it is the youngs indulge in these days.
"Excuuuuse me!"
A fair bit of shuffling ensues -hey I said no groping!- and I finally manage to extricate myself. Well, extricate one half of me, that is. I am still facing the wrong way though, and from my position, I'm ideally placed to observe glasses of beer gracefully trace through the air all the way from the stairs (waste of a fiver, that). Steam is literally rising from people's heads, I think I'm gonna faint.
"I'LL CALM DOWN!!", some beast roars behind me, "I'LL CALM DOWN!!" By the sound of the infernal racket going on, I'd say he doesn't seem to stand much of a chance.
"Hey, hey -Wait! Wait!! Hold it there guys! Hold it th"
But the young braves get down with it and start pumping their fists in the air -or whatever it is the youngs indulge in these days.
"Excuuuuse me!"
A fair bit of shuffling ensues -hey I said no groping!- and I finally manage to extricate myself. Well, extricate one half of me, that is. I am still facing the wrong way though, and from my position, I'm ideally placed to observe glasses of beer gracefully trace through the air all the way from the stairs (waste of a fiver, that). Steam is literally rising from people's heads, I think I'm gonna faint.
"I'LL CALM DOWN!!", some beast roars behind me, "I'LL CALM DOWN!!" By the sound of the infernal racket going on, I'd say he doesn't seem to stand much of a chance.
"-But
I'm still shaking."
I
still haven't had the opportunity to actually see what these lizards look like.
What they sound like though is... ahem, quite distinctive in their own way yeah. They're distinctive alright. Best description would be: the sound of falling down the stairs, falling down the stairs. I don't know what these guys are on -booze, speed, one, fire, one night only, stage, tour- but it sure isn't the money -they're like all over the place! Bang, bong, boom, crash, speak squeak creak, meaow -I can't make heads or tails 'what's going on! It's a bit like, let's see... it's a bit like when your thirteen year old boyfriend decides to demonstrate his newly acquired guitar skills, it's like that time when you brought back home the video for "Twin Peaks The Movie" instead of the one for "Twins", it's like going for a glass of water in the middle of the night and stumbling across your Da getting a "treat" from a groupie ...it's not a pleasant experience.
What do I do? What do I do? My first priority has to be to try 'n stay in one piece, some fierce pogoing is going on all around and I don't stand a chance. Being "petite" by nature -don't call me short OK- I'm like totally exposed to them flailing elbows. "Hey guys! Watch it!" I get hit in the back of my head and have no choice but turn around.
This is when I discover this David "Yo!" fellow.
Sweet lamb a Jaysus! Whatever happened to humanity! I'm not even going to describe let alone quibble his sense of dress -your man hasn't any. What strikes me first is his general appearance. The Lizard front-man could reasonably be described as some kind of purple faced grunting gargoyle all over the shop, sweating from every pore and squealing like a hoarse pig stuck on a roast. He hasn't even bothered to put on a shirt. What's wrong with wearing a shirt, man? Is that too much to ask?? But this small evolutionary detail sadly seems to have escaped this gentleman's attention altogether. In fact, the singer -and I use the term generously here- appears to be presently more preoccupied with keeping his torn trousers up. Ewww my word -'Doesn't look like we can expect any Calvin Klein underneath!
"Squeeeeal squeeeeeal, motherfucker, squeeeeal, one two one two!"
The music stops for a micro-second... (insert micro-second here) and then chaos resumes (/chaos/). "Broaaaaaaagh, bang, crash wallop woof woof!" As crashing cymbals joyfully drown out the harmonious din of out-of-tune guitars failing to stick to a discernible riff, your man comes up with a brilliant idea. He hurls himself head first into the crowd. "wwwwWAOOOOOOwww!" The crowd, to their credit, don't make way and receive him enthusiastically. Go check out YouTube and you'll find videos of audiences failing to receive stage divers ...it can be quite messy. Thankfully, tonight's is not one of these occasions and your man, now held aloft by a sea of tattooed arms, squeals and grunts some more: "wwwWWWHEYYYYYY!" -Chris de Borg this ain't. The squirming frontfellow now starts surfing above the assembled heads -why, David, why?- and progresses towards no particular destination; I get the feeling that this is part of the show, part of their routine. In fact, he's not the only crowd surfer in attendance, as two or three more appear out of nowhere. ...Hmm, at least these two are not supposedly here to sing, which is what your man was hired to do. Yo's singing goes something like this:
"May-be (something something really fast) boilermaker, may-be (something something really fast again) boilermaker woooAAAAARGGGGGHHHH!"
I think we've moved on to a new song but I'm not entirely sure. Meanwhile, the crowd surfers meet in the middle of the eruption and exchange head-bumps as males do. Crunch! Vlam! Pronk! More grunting and squealing ensues.
"Hey man have you been rubbin' your knob hey man have you (unintelligible) gimme the mike back motherfucker"
What they sound like though is... ahem, quite distinctive in their own way yeah. They're distinctive alright. Best description would be: the sound of falling down the stairs, falling down the stairs. I don't know what these guys are on -booze, speed, one, fire, one night only, stage, tour- but it sure isn't the money -they're like all over the place! Bang, bong, boom, crash, speak squeak creak, meaow -I can't make heads or tails 'what's going on! It's a bit like, let's see... it's a bit like when your thirteen year old boyfriend decides to demonstrate his newly acquired guitar skills, it's like that time when you brought back home the video for "Twin Peaks The Movie" instead of the one for "Twins", it's like going for a glass of water in the middle of the night and stumbling across your Da getting a "treat" from a groupie ...it's not a pleasant experience.
What do I do? What do I do? My first priority has to be to try 'n stay in one piece, some fierce pogoing is going on all around and I don't stand a chance. Being "petite" by nature -don't call me short OK- I'm like totally exposed to them flailing elbows. "Hey guys! Watch it!" I get hit in the back of my head and have no choice but turn around.
This is when I discover this David "Yo!" fellow.
Sweet lamb a Jaysus! Whatever happened to humanity! I'm not even going to describe let alone quibble his sense of dress -your man hasn't any. What strikes me first is his general appearance. The Lizard front-man could reasonably be described as some kind of purple faced grunting gargoyle all over the shop, sweating from every pore and squealing like a hoarse pig stuck on a roast. He hasn't even bothered to put on a shirt. What's wrong with wearing a shirt, man? Is that too much to ask?? But this small evolutionary detail sadly seems to have escaped this gentleman's attention altogether. In fact, the singer -and I use the term generously here- appears to be presently more preoccupied with keeping his torn trousers up. Ewww my word -'Doesn't look like we can expect any Calvin Klein underneath!
"Squeeeeal squeeeeeal, motherfucker, squeeeeal, one two one two!"
The music stops for a micro-second... (insert micro-second here) and then chaos resumes (/chaos/). "Broaaaaaaagh, bang, crash wallop woof woof!" As crashing cymbals joyfully drown out the harmonious din of out-of-tune guitars failing to stick to a discernible riff, your man comes up with a brilliant idea. He hurls himself head first into the crowd. "wwwwWAOOOOOOwww!" The crowd, to their credit, don't make way and receive him enthusiastically. Go check out YouTube and you'll find videos of audiences failing to receive stage divers ...it can be quite messy. Thankfully, tonight's is not one of these occasions and your man, now held aloft by a sea of tattooed arms, squeals and grunts some more: "wwwWWWHEYYYYYY!" -Chris de Borg this ain't. The squirming frontfellow now starts surfing above the assembled heads -why, David, why?- and progresses towards no particular destination; I get the feeling that this is part of the show, part of their routine. In fact, he's not the only crowd surfer in attendance, as two or three more appear out of nowhere. ...Hmm, at least these two are not supposedly here to sing, which is what your man was hired to do. Yo's singing goes something like this:
"May-be (something something really fast) boilermaker, may-be (something something really fast again) boilermaker woooAAAAARGGGGGHHHH!"
I think we've moved on to a new song but I'm not entirely sure. Meanwhile, the crowd surfers meet in the middle of the eruption and exchange head-bumps as males do. Crunch! Vlam! Pronk! More grunting and squealing ensues.
"Hey man have you been rubbin' your knob hey man have you (unintelligible) gimme the mike back motherfucker"
I am getting it left right and centre now, as all manners of body parts fly about: elbows, arms, backs, knees... Everyone's gone epileptic or. To think that I fancied a quiet night in... Brave young males engage in some kind of wardance and I am left to fend off for myself, stuck in the middle of traffic. Left right left right, I've become a human top, spinning around but not the way Kylie intended.
"(Grunt) baby baby baby" -what's so genius about that??- "(unintelligible) dancing naked gurls wwwHHEEYYYYyy!! Bark, bark, yeaaahhh you (something) to meeee (grunt) the best paaarts -I've got your number motherfucker: Bang!!"
I fear retribution is in the air -literally- as a blur of legs flies over me and a body soon follows, disappearing head first under the forest of arms. How heartwarming... your man's sudden vertical departure is saluted by big cheers all around but not to worry: More meet-and-greet candidates for suicide instantly replace him, moshing their way over people's craniums and necks. As the mayhem continually reconfigures itself with no regard for propriety, I suddenly find myself pressing hard against someone's sweaty manboobs -ewww... The biffo in question is towering over me and wears a charming shirt that reads "Hips Lips Tits Power" (???) but that's just fab: the big fellow's acting as a human shield against the rolling waves. Alleluia! I've found shelter! It might last just one more song, but I've found shelter! I cling to him, I cling to him, and my personal sumo arches his back against the relentless assault.
Somewhere above our heads, the lead grunter concludes one of his incomprehensible assaults on melody with a satisfied "Aaaaahhhh..." Truth be told, I'm getting the hang of recognising Jesus Lizard song endings: they're over when all that remains is the droning Larsen melting everything between your ears. It usually brings us ten seconds of temporary respite.
Now let's talk serious.
I'm sorry but, back in the days when a certain Dub legend bestrode the stage like the proverbial octopus, things were much simpler: the singer stood on the stage... and not on his audience's heads. There was -like- a clear line in the sand, and everyone knew where to stand. That is to say:
the audience "A" on one side,
and the band "B" on the other. Full stop. Inbetween the two shall no meet. Or at least, not before the after-show, er, "congratulations" ('nuff said, see above).
In days of yore, you most certainly did not see bodies flying right past your nose like I just did (oops, that must have hurt). I certainly can't imagine JohnnyRay taking very kindly to anyone crashing his personal space, let alone pilfering his mike mid-rant. No no no no, the Bard of Blanchardstown wouldn't have put up with that one bit! I don't imagine he would have gone for a wander down the mashed pit either, or put himself at the mercy of his listeners' tired arms -talking of which, I wonder how many more emergency landings are likely to happen tonight (there goes another one); the answer's probably a few.
I'm sorry but, back in the days when a certain Dub legend bestrode the stage like the proverbial octopus, things were much simpler: the singer stood on the stage... and not on his audience's heads. There was -like- a clear line in the sand, and everyone knew where to stand. That is to say:
the audience "A" on one side,
and the band "B" on the other. Full stop. Inbetween the two shall no meet. Or at least, not before the after-show, er, "congratulations" ('nuff said, see above).
In days of yore, you most certainly did not see bodies flying right past your nose like I just did (oops, that must have hurt). I certainly can't imagine JohnnyRay taking very kindly to anyone crashing his personal space, let alone pilfering his mike mid-rant. No no no no, the Bard of Blanchardstown wouldn't have put up with that one bit! I don't imagine he would have gone for a wander down the mashed pit either, or put himself at the mercy of his listeners' tired arms -talking of which, I wonder how many more emergency landings are likely to happen tonight (there goes another one); the answer's probably a few.
"Mumble mumble mumble been a wonderful audience mumble SQUEEEAL HERE COMES DUDLEY!!"
The apocalypse resumes. Boom boom cymbals bass grumble shriek guitar and all that jazz. I'm almost getting used to this nonsense by now: it's like these guys started with perfectly legitimate songs with a normal guitar riff, a solid bass line and a coherent rhythm ...and then set about messing them up for the craic of it. And they certainly mess them up alright. Here we go again: Stop / start / stop / start / guitar shrill (I think it's meant to be a "riff") / stop again; bass heavier than yo mama's arse; drummer sounding like he's put on boxing gloves: another sonic outrage is on its way. So let's detune the guitar some more ("boiiiing!"), let's bash the bass ("Brommm!"), and let's ply the drumman with booze for good measure ("Weeeeeeee!"). Sighs rock critic Lily... Why can't they just leave it alone and keep it simple? Slip a chill pill, lads! Yous are definitely starting to wreck me bonce something massive! Meanwhile and more pressingly, my man-shelter appears to be wilting under the relentless surge of the rioters and we're inexorably pushed towards the front. 'Can't possibly grab his love handles more desperately without risking a "X" certificate and so I slip, I slide, I submit. I go with the flow, I have no choice. "Zzzzzzip" go my feet dragged on the floor (that is, if I could hear them), "Boom boom boom bong" go the bass and drums -Jaysus is this a heavy number or what! With the resumption of hostilities, the singer has taken to climbing over people's heads again -in fact I wonder when I last saw him on the stage proper- and I note with alarm that he's currently heading this way.
He's currently heading this way.
This can't be good. This can't be good for me. As I get dragged / pushed along depending on which way I turn, I realise to my absolute horror that your man is unerringly heading straight for me! Desperate times call for desperate measures: No no no no, please by the Bono, say it ain't so!! But calling on the holy one proves of no use, before I know it, the grunting gnome towers over me, all sweat and manhandled parts -I don't even want to imagine who's been holding what, let's not go there! His flabby torso hovers over my hair and he starts dripping all over me! Aaaahhhhh!!! Your man's totally dripping and I am trapped underneath, with everyone naturally dead intent on maintaining him in that very position on that very spot. Get him off me! Get him off me! That'll be a double shampoo and tetanus shot for me first thing in the morning, that. I close my eyes and try to be brave:
Sweet Mary mother of our Lord, should you hear me above this infernal racket, I promise to be a good girl from now on. No more "Dawson Creek" / "O.C." marathon, no more faffing about at the gym, not even any slagging of badly dressed oafs -and you knooow how much I can't abide slovenliness!
Finally I can't help it, curiosity gets the better of me and I look up. I soon regret my decision.
Your man is currently dangling down three feet away from me, his limbs somewhat stretched out in five different directions. The beast fixes me right in the eye for a full half-second and snarls: "That woman was crazy..." Why, thanks a bunch mister, you're not too sound yourself! And then as his right leg swings over his left shoulder, he adds "-She's the mistress of a man who's crazy too" and on this note, rolls away. He is bundled over to another lucky lucky punter and our moment passes. "Touched by the hand of God" we were not -Dripped over by the spawn of Satan more like!! And then Mary shines a light on me.
Not only does the deranged stunt man drift away entirely ("that's right Dudley wwwweyyYYYyyy"), but most of the hoi-polloi follows and -alleluia!- I see an opening. I see an opening, says I. All of a sudden there is hope in the stampede, salvation amidst the sweatfest. The mental feckers are so keen on sticking to their hero -and in more ways than one I'd say- on his air-lifted journey that they leave themselves exposed at the back. I don't think twice and dash for it.
In one second flat, I squeeeeeze out of the throng and rush to the back like it's nobody's business -Hurrah for we are born again! I make it to the stairs and cling to them almost hardly believing my luck. I've met the man himself and walked away from him, I'm the greatest. Sure, me hair must be all over the place and let's not get started on my panda make-up (ruined altogether!) but I survived, yes I survived. Your man's raging impotently in his corner now, I like to think he misses me already. He roars something about "HERE COMES DUDLEY!! HERE COMES DUDLEY!!!" Who the feck that Dudley fellow is, I still have no idea.
I treat myself to a long sigh ("siiiiiiiigh") and survey the damage done. Nah, no pocket got torn off, no button's gone missing, that's a relief. On my right, two cool dudes sip foreign beer from a bottle and pass comment on the proceedings:
-Dude number one: "Yaaaah, pretty lethal like... If you wanna know my opinion, he's da shit, man. Dead rapa, that."
-Dude number two: "True for you my man, true for you -although he was pretty ripped last time 'round too, that would have been oh... three or four years ago? Your man was like totally out of his box."
I turn round, I goes: "Oh is that so? Well fellows, let me tell yous, yous don't even know who yous're talking to! See me? Was just after banging heads with your man out there in the pit! 'Matter of fact, yous come closer and sniff me -That's The Man Himself yous'll be smelling!!"
Except
I don't. And good thing too
as dude number one continues: "Oh that one eh? So I heard yeah, so I heard... Then again, it was only at a bogside reception for a new TD, mind! You should see him in action at the Dail when he goes and tears Enda a new one"
-Dude number two: "Oh no question, man: Bertie never disappoints when he's up for it!"
I catch my breath and consider maybe calling an end to tonight's funs and games. I become aware of a constant ringing in my ear, which I take to indicate no more start-and-stop "song" is currently in progress. And indeed
"Thangyouladiesngenlemen, been a smashin' audience (mumble mumble mumble) FUGAZI!" rings out whence I escaped. Huge cheers all round.
Oh blast, I forgot there's more to come!! Do I really want to hang around for that Chinese band?
As the Ride Us Lizard depart, presumably picking up their clothes in the process, the crowd disperses, leaving only casualties with limbs facing the wrong way on the dance floor. Now where could your warriors possibly migrate to? That's right, they all flow back towards the bar! I desperately look to Mathieu and cling on to the handrail -I'd have better luck juggling soap bars! And so, without even so much as a basic "Sorry love but get the feck outta me way" for my trouble, I get pegged back ten yards by the incoming traffic. "Zzzzzzip" some more: that'll be my hand sliding up the banister. I get pushed about like I hardly exist -Jaysus, is this "kick Lily"'s day or what!
as dude number one continues: "Oh that one eh? So I heard yeah, so I heard... Then again, it was only at a bogside reception for a new TD, mind! You should see him in action at the Dail when he goes and tears Enda a new one"
-Dude number two: "Oh no question, man: Bertie never disappoints when he's up for it!"
I catch my breath and consider maybe calling an end to tonight's funs and games. I become aware of a constant ringing in my ear, which I take to indicate no more start-and-stop "song" is currently in progress. And indeed
"Thangyouladiesngenlemen, been a smashin' audience (mumble mumble mumble) FUGAZI!" rings out whence I escaped. Huge cheers all round.
Oh blast, I forgot there's more to come!! Do I really want to hang around for that Chinese band?
As the Ride Us Lizard depart, presumably picking up their clothes in the process, the crowd disperses, leaving only casualties with limbs facing the wrong way on the dance floor. Now where could your warriors possibly migrate to? That's right, they all flow back towards the bar! I desperately look to Mathieu and cling on to the handrail -I'd have better luck juggling soap bars! And so, without even so much as a basic "Sorry love but get the feck outta me way" for my trouble, I get pegged back ten yards by the incoming traffic. "Zzzzzzip" some more: that'll be my hand sliding up the banister. I get pushed about like I hardly exist -Jaysus, is this "kick Lily"'s day or what!
Still no sign of life from Mathieu... I can't see him. For sure, I start to worry. Where was he standing, 'last time I saw him? Wasn't it right by the bar? Now then, he wouldn't have got it inside his head to come forward and tried to help me out would he...? Oh the poor lamb, surely he didn't try to be brave... Must have got himself trapped inside the scrum! ... I scrutinise the pile of bodies being carted away to the gutter by the venue's ginger hunchback. Could Angel Face be lying at the bottom? Somehow I doubt it. Can't imagine him, being so stylish and Parisian, so well-heeled y'know, getting stuck in... Oh no, this free-for-all and general punch-up that passes as dancing around here, that'd be so unlike him! Must have stayed safely put at the bar. 'Clever clog eh, he'll have it all to himself! No more queues, problem solved! ... (I look for him at the bar.) (Doesn't appear to be there.) Oh there he is!! Must have got caught in the swirl he has...: The poor lamb is presently squashed flat against the wall and looking pretty sheepish too, if I'm honest. 'Probably tipped his toe and got himself thrown off by the hurricane! The poor thing's holding on to his wall, no more than thirty feet away and yet totally out of reach... Might as well be in County Donegal for all it's worth (sigh / end of sigh). Rivers of bruised boozers stream between us, epithets fly high. ("Sparked him right out, little gobshite!", "Trust the man, Steve Albini know what he's doing", "...and then I flipped her over -Don't get many of these for a Euro!!") He doesn't look too proud right now and I think I can see why: the front of his treasured jacket looks suspiciously shiny. ...Could it be he got his drink emptied in a way he hadn't bargained for? (Waste of a good beer, that, part two.) How must he feel now, does he regret coming? Well you wanted punk, you 'got it! Poor babe in the woods, surrounded by these brutes... ("'Be perfectly honest widcha, I thought they were OK. They were OK. Have seen them worse at the Garage: your man put his foot through the ceiling he did. Should have been there, man.")
No point in shouting, I am reduced to waving frantically in his direction in order to catch his attention. He finally sees me. He brightens up ("and his smile lit up the whole room", copyright miss Gussywet). Attempting to talk here is useless and so I whip out my mobile. A frowning brow of troubled susceptibility, the separated cherub looks at me all uncomprehending. Do I detect a nascent tear at the delicate commissure of his doe eyes? Fear not my angel face, it's all good, everything's gonna be just fine! I wave my mobile at the silly billy, he looks at me like a cow stuck in the bog. I brandish it like an American game-show winner with a voucher for Pizza Hut -He finally gets it. He whips his out. I'll show you mine if you show yours heh heh, except with added satellite digital scobies.
I set about enquiring about his well-being:
-"hey there - loox like we r separated!! can only txt!!"
He receives it across deep space and thirty feet a full five seconds later. He replies.
-"i know"
-"ah well, 2 bad - how did u njoy show?"
-"yes"
OK... and tell us more maybe...?
-"u were rite: was certainly difrent from usual ;-)"
-"yes"
-"got drggd in2 middl ov crowd n held up teh man imselfLOL!!!"
-"cool"
-"yr boyz bit loud tho - bit bold 2"
...
"now actualy am not 2 sure i ll stay 4 fugasi tho :-o
feelin bit tired 2 b honest"
...
"u wanna stay?"
-"sure"
...
-"ok then - think ill go home tho: fever + long day 2moz :-((
will u b ok 2 stay on yr won?"
-"of course"
-"ok then, u hav fun yeah? thanx 4 ticket n xperience - njoy!!!!"
...a full twenty seconds later
-"ok"
I blow him a kiss -men just love that- and zip up my jacket (the nights are always colder when you're on your own). Right. ... Now must try to fight my way out of this place. Fortunately the tide is surging back in one direction and that would be towards the stage; they're clearly mad on seeing that Thai band or! Just as well says I, 'works in my favour. I take a deep breath, hope for the best -and I totally furrow my way out: yyyyyyyes! Fresh air / big city. Dublin has never felt so reassuring or wholesome.
chapter 14 "I'm not like the other guys"
"Driving on nine...". Captainette's log: in transit to cover record convention at the Point. Dress code: casual. Weather: uncertain to sunny, with a touch of the odd shower, cloudy at times with possible hail followed by heat wave.
This
convention might make for a killer subject in my next bulletin slash written
piece, I reckoned. Aren't them anoraks mad for vinyl though! Vinyl eh... so
last century. Why, it'd be like paying in cash or something! Who still does
that?? Anyhoo, not my problem. Am only on it for work purposes although, I must
admit, also curious on a personal level like, namely... will there be anything
by ColdHeat? Do they still attract trade? (Or are they stone cold forgotten
now?) I have the most dreadful feeling their records are just the kind 'ends up
in carboot sales ("Only three Eulo each, three for a tenner! Here, dig
this, take 'em, take 'em all pal!"). Hopefully there'll be a mad old
collector who only went and hoarded the Coldies' entire memorabilia for the
last twenty years. Huh. Stranger things have been seen... Like, one time, there
was this fanboy who was found holed up inside -was it Cliff Richard?- 's back
garden, on a mission to spy on him. Or then this guy who kept in his fridge the
last ever wash-water of a football team kit before that side relocated to a new
stadium. True story, that. Mental. Oh well, we'll soon find out if ColdHeat
inspires the same level of devotion ...I almost wish they do. I do worry about
Da sometime, frozen in his time-capsule. He can get quite detached from
reality, only caring for his hypothetical place in the world and one-time claim
to glory when the world at large has moved on. Hmm. It would be nice if I could
cheer him up a bit, if I could find someone who actually remembered ColdHeat
and'd be willing to talk about what the band still
meant to them... Validation's always welcome, like.
Brainwave! Could Mathieu be up for it? He who likes to waffle about art and drags me to "artistic punk" free-for-alls, 'think I'll give him a quick phonecall. Not that we're supposed to meet today, we only made vague plans but... I get his answerphone. Himself's "not available right now"; herself leaves a brief message so. Shame. Mind you, he's probably at work. Shockingly enough, my little maniac does sacrifice to working life once in a while. Answering urgent queries from French gamers at his call-centre place is what he does, queries such as how to beat "utility orbs" (??) and collect bonus points, or how to get their videoyoke back on track ("Have you checked the connections? Can you switch it off and switch it on again?"). Your man is on deck to tell them how to enjoy their lives.
He works in shifts ("Allo, Mathieu speaking, how can I help you?") in what is an insane 24/7 operation that looks after callers from all around the world ("Yes... yes... aha, I see... yes...") in all sorts of bother ("Sorry, 'didn't get that -Can you repeat?"). His beloved callers are predictable in their unpredictability, so he told me. In that they can be relied on to fire up and crash their consoles any time of day and night. Especially of night ("Right, right, hmmm -Have you pressed the "on" button? Is the red light on yet? Is it flashing? ...Is there anything flashing at all?"). 'Says he loves it ("Sir, Sir, can I ask you not to raise your voice -it's not my fault if your Light-Sabre Of Justice does not reach down to your Evil Garden gnomes."). I'm sure he does ("Can I ask you again: have you checked the connections? 'You sure the unit hasn't come unplugged?"). Never saw the appeal meself, but there you go; fellas certainly do ("I will have to refer you to one of my colleagues, I'm afraid -Please hold the line."). They're mad for it! Can't get enough of these computer games! And off they go, inexplicably fiddling with their joysticks for hours on end... Must present a certain je-ne-sais-quoi, that. Some ooh-la-la... Could it be this Laura Croft character maybe? Laura Croft, the unashamed pillager of Third World treasures and looter of indigenous cultures. Now how could this busty daredevil in tight jodhpurs and knee-high boots be of interest to spotty geeks? ... Huh, 'bit of a mystery that one. 'Would seem there's lots of frustrated antique dealers out there... Still. Let's indulge them eh.
Brainwave! Could Mathieu be up for it? He who likes to waffle about art and drags me to "artistic punk" free-for-alls, 'think I'll give him a quick phonecall. Not that we're supposed to meet today, we only made vague plans but... I get his answerphone. Himself's "not available right now"; herself leaves a brief message so. Shame. Mind you, he's probably at work. Shockingly enough, my little maniac does sacrifice to working life once in a while. Answering urgent queries from French gamers at his call-centre place is what he does, queries such as how to beat "utility orbs" (??) and collect bonus points, or how to get their videoyoke back on track ("Have you checked the connections? Can you switch it off and switch it on again?"). Your man is on deck to tell them how to enjoy their lives.
He works in shifts ("Allo, Mathieu speaking, how can I help you?") in what is an insane 24/7 operation that looks after callers from all around the world ("Yes... yes... aha, I see... yes...") in all sorts of bother ("Sorry, 'didn't get that -Can you repeat?"). His beloved callers are predictable in their unpredictability, so he told me. In that they can be relied on to fire up and crash their consoles any time of day and night. Especially of night ("Right, right, hmmm -Have you pressed the "on" button? Is the red light on yet? Is it flashing? ...Is there anything flashing at all?"). 'Says he loves it ("Sir, Sir, can I ask you not to raise your voice -it's not my fault if your Light-Sabre Of Justice does not reach down to your Evil Garden gnomes."). I'm sure he does ("Can I ask you again: have you checked the connections? 'You sure the unit hasn't come unplugged?"). Never saw the appeal meself, but there you go; fellas certainly do ("I will have to refer you to one of my colleagues, I'm afraid -Please hold the line."). They're mad for it! Can't get enough of these computer games! And off they go, inexplicably fiddling with their joysticks for hours on end... Must present a certain je-ne-sais-quoi, that. Some ooh-la-la... Could it be this Laura Croft character maybe? Laura Croft, the unashamed pillager of Third World treasures and looter of indigenous cultures. Now how could this busty daredevil in tight jodhpurs and knee-high boots be of interest to spotty geeks? ... Huh, 'bit of a mystery that one. 'Would seem there's lots of frustrated antique dealers out there... Still. Let's indulge them eh.
After
all, that stuff got popular for a reason; these guys must see something in her
that I don't get and so... And so, let's imagine. Here's
an idea. What if "Tomb Rider" was adapted over here, what would be
its storyline? Its Unique Selling Point? Now here's a funky challenge for a
rainy day! I like it already. Now then...What if Laura's adventures took her to
our cosy backyard instead of the jungle? Why would she bother and
whereabouts would she strike? Let's say Dublin of all places... There's no
pyramid here, no Aztec temple I can think of... What would possibly be of
interest to her? (As in worth stealing, plundering, and incidentally
cleavage-baring for.) 'Fecked if I can think of an answer! Apart from the Books
of Kells, 'can't be many valuable artefacts around worth plunging from a
helicopter in skimpy hotpants for... And would pimply
fanboys care about the Book in the first place? This remains to be seen.
... Huh. A weather-beaten Celtic cross might have its suitors I guess... Or a
tractor blessed by the Pope... Pat Kenny's wig maybe... -A-ha! 'Think I've got
it! She'd probably go and storm the National Museum she would ...and nick the
auld bogmen!! That's right, stuff them in her backpack -first making sure to
fold them properly-, pole-vault over the broken bottle topped razorwire gate,
skateboard up Kildare Street, and jetski on the Liffey off into the sunset! No
doubt these mummies would make a great addition to her collection, you could
well imagine her standing them up in her living room, like right by the chimney
or the jukebox, resting them against the wall to complete her collection of
Etruscan vases, fragments of the Berlin Wall, Egyptian sarcophagi, Walt
Disney's cryogenic vat, Michelangelo sketches and other Arab straps. Swwwwanky.
What do you give the girl who's got it all? A fossilised man-shaped lamppost, that's what.
Never was too sure what she actually does for a living though, 'don't think she's an archaeologist like Indiana Jones. Probably not a librarian either. Anyway 'very much doubt the thrills she'd encounter here would beat her usual fare. Maybe she could venture over to the North Side? Maybe she could try a swim in the Liffey? And while in there, our Laura would get caught in the shifting sands of the scouldy smelling low-tide mud and almost die an agonising death, slowly and I mean proper slowly yeah, sinking. "Help... help..." the bikinied one would plead and all her fans would be hard at it, frantically manhandling their scobies trying to pull her out, desperately looking for some voluminous portion of her physique to grab her by... Maybe her hair?
Maybe her boobs.
Traffic is surprisingly fluid this morning, it's almost shocking. I mean, seven a.m. to seven p.m., surely this is rush hour for Dublin Town! Any time between sunrise and pub close, we're talking choc-a-block bumper-to-bumper face-pulling at your neighbour carry-on. And cowboy windshield cleaner territory too, let's not forget them cowboy windshield chancers: "Two Eulo, gimme two Eulo Mister. OK one Eulo, gimme one Eulo". But today's different, today's traffic a right breeze. With a bit of luck, I may just make it before the convention closes its doors. It's not that the Point is miles away; it's just that it takes ages in normal traffic conditions. The trick is to reach the size-zero statues on the quay and you're almost there.
I'm almost there.
Introducing the Point (cough cough)... And what a -er- fine piece of architecture it is to be sure! The so-called Point is shaped like a, well, like a square I guess? A square, only massive. Feck-off massive. Actually it's rather oblong. Big rectangular thingy. Lots of concrete, rafters, metallic arches, pillars, corrugated iron and giant walls -dead fancy stuff and no mistake. Functional box-like. Imagine a giant brick dropped from the sky. On a clear day, it gracefully reminds of an airplane repair hangar, a disused steam train station... it's pretty much a barn to be honest. A godawful barn on an industrial scale. And I'm thinking. I'm thinking I'm trying to remember 'last time I came down here, must have been aeons ago, simply aeons. Now then, when would that have been? ..... Sometime before Bertie, before the millennium, before the Jean-Paul Gaultier conical bra. Before my graduation, before that "lesson" with the ski instructor, maybe even before the first series of "Friends" -That takes us back! Another era altogether. Why, it almost dates back to before I was born! Depeche Mode 'been playing here recently (but I missed them) and other huge bands... It's been busy. This Eurovision carry-on used to take place here too, back in the days we ruled the charts, and then I realise to my horror:
Never was too sure what she actually does for a living though, 'don't think she's an archaeologist like Indiana Jones. Probably not a librarian either. Anyway 'very much doubt the thrills she'd encounter here would beat her usual fare. Maybe she could venture over to the North Side? Maybe she could try a swim in the Liffey? And while in there, our Laura would get caught in the shifting sands of the scouldy smelling low-tide mud and almost die an agonising death, slowly and I mean proper slowly yeah, sinking. "Help... help..." the bikinied one would plead and all her fans would be hard at it, frantically manhandling their scobies trying to pull her out, desperately looking for some voluminous portion of her physique to grab her by... Maybe her hair?
Maybe her boobs.
Traffic is surprisingly fluid this morning, it's almost shocking. I mean, seven a.m. to seven p.m., surely this is rush hour for Dublin Town! Any time between sunrise and pub close, we're talking choc-a-block bumper-to-bumper face-pulling at your neighbour carry-on. And cowboy windshield cleaner territory too, let's not forget them cowboy windshield chancers: "Two Eulo, gimme two Eulo Mister. OK one Eulo, gimme one Eulo". But today's different, today's traffic a right breeze. With a bit of luck, I may just make it before the convention closes its doors. It's not that the Point is miles away; it's just that it takes ages in normal traffic conditions. The trick is to reach the size-zero statues on the quay and you're almost there.
I'm almost there.
Introducing the Point (cough cough)... And what a -er- fine piece of architecture it is to be sure! The so-called Point is shaped like a, well, like a square I guess? A square, only massive. Feck-off massive. Actually it's rather oblong. Big rectangular thingy. Lots of concrete, rafters, metallic arches, pillars, corrugated iron and giant walls -dead fancy stuff and no mistake. Functional box-like. Imagine a giant brick dropped from the sky. On a clear day, it gracefully reminds of an airplane repair hangar, a disused steam train station... it's pretty much a barn to be honest. A godawful barn on an industrial scale. And I'm thinking. I'm thinking I'm trying to remember 'last time I came down here, must have been aeons ago, simply aeons. Now then, when would that have been? ..... Sometime before Bertie, before the millennium, before the Jean-Paul Gaultier conical bra. Before my graduation, before that "lesson" with the ski instructor, maybe even before the first series of "Friends" -That takes us back! Another era altogether. Why, it almost dates back to before I was born! Depeche Mode 'been playing here recently (but I missed them) and other huge bands... It's been busy. This Eurovision carry-on used to take place here too, back in the days we ruled the charts, and then I realise to my horror:
must have been a Boyzone gig!!
Yikes. Oh but I was young then, was very young -and what the hell, it must have been fab at the time! Just imagine: the Zone naked under their dungarees in front of a thousand pre-pubescent girlies in hysterics... We must have broke the sound barrier when they appeared! Eat your heart out, Lennon-McCartney! Move over, the Bono and Co! That's the power of pop and the Boyzone were "it" back then, another stroke of genius from the man Walsh. Fair play to him, 'keeps coming up trumps, he does... Ah we were crazy for them, couldn't get enough of them, and their merchandising was out of this world: posters, t-shirts, caps, stickers, bandannas, scarves, gym bras, contraceptive pills -you name it! We eventually grew up -and then switched to Westlife.
On reflection these days were truly happy, loose of foot and free of care, but that's the way it goes does it not? As successive years apply licks of disappointment, hitherto unsuspected instances of pure happiness often reveal themselves, whose measure we didn't fully realise at the time. Like for instance if I think about it, who else would have got me the ticket for that gig but the very punk icon JohnnyRay himself! JohnnyRay in person, the celebrated enemy of convention and anti-everything icon, he would have been the one. Yep, he must have been the one doing the rounds begging for Boyzone tickets, when these were pure gold dust too! Then of course he was the one 'took me there himself. This I remember now: the famous punk ...and his Boyzone loving daughter. What it must have meant for him I dread to imagine, talk about street cred! But somehow he went ahead with it, it didn't matter, what would have only mattered to him was my happiness, like it only came down to myself and me Da ("Now don't let go of me hand you hear?"). He took me to the gig himself -and how it must have hurt. His ears, his standards, his faith with public taste and the rock business... any of these, really. Worse still. If I do a quick calculation, that would have precisely been around the time his career was starting to bomb...
Now that's what I call a Da.
Probably bought me the t-shirt. T-shirt, bandanna, badges, sweets, soda and a balloon for the road.
So Depeche Mode recently played here and I missed them. Bad thing? Good thing? On one hand, it would have been a less embarrassing occasion to remember.
On the other I would have never recalled this precious moment with Da.
Anyway here I am again, a good dozen years later: the Point, here we come (back)! A
Curios
such as: this famous seven inch single with a cigarette hole drilled through
the sleeve by the bass player, or this square record,
this pink vinyl, this cover fitted with flashing LEDs, this album sprayed with
synthetic strawberry perfume, this CD whose inner photo got vandalised by a
graffiti artist, this limited edition cover that features a classy flies
zipper, or else this fold-out structure, this inverted sleeve with the artwork
inside, this LP with the A-side for the B-side, or even this disc left whole
with no central hole pierced through! Anything goes, really. Anything out of
the ordinary gains in value.
Like I said, the sight's proper daunting: There's so many stalls, I just don't know where to start! So much so that I'm almost tempted to forget about my initial idea and just go with the flow, drifting through the rows, vaguely browsing through the thousands of cut prices and special offers -amazing how so many prices happen to be "slashed" eh... Is there any classification at work here? After a wee while, I make out ad hoc thematic divisions: some traders are clearly only dealing in a specific time period, band or whatever. Once again, I'm taken by surprise by the unsuspected variety on offer. There's like divisions, subdivisions, and even more subdivisions.
Like I said, the sight's proper daunting: There's so many stalls, I just don't know where to start! So much so that I'm almost tempted to forget about my initial idea and just go with the flow, drifting through the rows, vaguely browsing through the thousands of cut prices and special offers -amazing how so many prices happen to be "slashed" eh... Is there any classification at work here? After a wee while, I make out ad hoc thematic divisions: some traders are clearly only dealing in a specific time period, band or whatever. Once again, I'm taken by surprise by the unsuspected variety on offer. There's like divisions, subdivisions, and even more subdivisions.
Fill
your boots when you can choose from:
live bootlegs; videoed TV appearances; "Dr. Who"; punk era; vinyl only; singles; eight-track cassettes; "shoegazing" (?); t-shirts and memorabilia; autographs; limited editions of one sort of another; "baggy"(??); programs; backstage passes; Japanese releases of English / American albums complete with funny squiggling; "grindcore" and "mash-ups"(???); personal fanclub relics; musicals; "leaked" master-tapes from the studios; "jungle", "speedcore", "two-tone", "ragga" (surely a spelling mistake), "Bollywood"; white labels (What can this mean? I go investigate and the labels turn out to be white -Du'h! Not the most informative is it!); Elvis; tour posters and key-rings; heavy metal (cue excuse for cranking up to eleven some godawful racket from men in make-up and poodle haircut. Oh mine ears. Must be their skintight kecks that cause them to squeal so high!); box-sets; "industrial"; homemade; discontinued and deleted; second-hand bargains (that frankly look like they belong to a carboot sale); country and western; anything but classical; TV tie-ins (Wanna hear our homemade take on "Do They Know It's Christmas Time" again? Or what about an eighties fun-filled Ireland soccer team anthem? Well look no further. I for one will.); movie soundtracks; VHS rental tapes from bankrupt video-shops; eighties and "post-punk" -Bingo! We're in business!
I approach the stand in question with no small amount of trepidation. Will they have anything by ColdHeat? Will they? ...Will they at least have heard of them? Plastic pockets wallpaper the stand, offering to our attention a lovingly selected array of lurid sleeves, all of them competing for the most attention grabbing title:
"City Baby Attacked By Rats!", "Punk's Not Dead!", "Sid Vicious Was Innocent!", "The Ungovernable Force", "The Unacceptable Face Of Freedom", "Destroy She Said", "Lesson One: Misanthropy", "Plein Les Couilles!" (?? bovine genitals pictured here), "Pissed And Proud!", "Banned From The Pubs!", "Too Drunk To Fuck", "Bring On The Nubiles", "It Takes A Nation To Hold Us Back!", "Apocalypse 91 The Empire Strikes Black!", "Welcome To The Terrordome", "I'm So Bored With The USA", "Songs About F*cking", "If You Don't Want To Fuck Me Then Fuck Off", "Nazi Punks Fuck Off", "Fuck Like An Animal", "Fuck Da Police", "Fuck The Mods!", my personal favourite: "The F*ckin' C*nts Treat Us Like Pr*cks" (sic), "Touch Me I'm Sick", "Plastic Surgery Disasters", "I Wanna Marry A Tubeway Disaster", "Holiday In Cambodia", "Smash It Up!", "Kill The Poor!", "Kill Your Friends!", "Kill Your Television!", "The Fisherman's Blues", "Cop Killer", "Bloodsports For All!", "Friendly As A Hand Grenade", "Machine Gun Etiquette", "Shot From Both Sides", "Pretty Hate Machine", "Atrocity Exhibition", "Tube Stations Of The Cross", "Pictures Of Starving Children Sell Records", "Let's Lynch The Landlord!", "I Don't Want To Know If You Are Lonely", "The Queen Is Dead", "Friendly Fascism" (mercifully subtitled "This Is Not A Fascist Record"), "This Is Not A Love Song", "Go Wild In The Country!", "The Sky's Gone Out!", "Final Solution", "Baby's Turned Blue!", and finally "If I Die I Die".
Phew, that's us told.
Check out the band-names then, they're equally delightful: the Screaming Blue Messiahs, the Stranglers, Screaming Jesus, Play Dead, Dead Can Dance, Dead Kennedys, the Dead Boys, the Death Cult, Death (do I detect a common thread here?), Discharge, Crass, Conflict, Cannibal Corpse, the Circle Jerks, the Crucifucks, Crispy Ambulance, Theatre Of Hate, Handsome Dick And The Dictators, And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of The Dead, Sick Of It All, Poison The Well, Public Enemy, Niggas With Attitude, Nuclear Assault, Napalm Death, Extreme Noise Terror, Killdozer, Kill Yourself, the Killers, the Kills, Bomb Disneyland, Bomb Everything, the Brian Jonestown Massacre, a Million Dead Cops, Cop Shoot Cop, Bodycount, Scratch Acid, Unsane, Damaged, Pulp (as in "beaten to a"?), Pissed Jeans, Bathtub Shitter, the Damned, the London SS, the Violent Femmes, the Homosexuals, the Epileptics, Treponem Pal, Daisy Chainsaw, Bark Psychosis, Suicide, Suicidal Tendencies, Time To Die, the It Will Hurt But You Will Like It, Blood Everywhere, Virgin Mega Whore, Gaye (sic) Bikers On Acid, Sheep On Drugs, Foreheads In A Fishtank, Machine Gun Fellatio, the Butthole Surfers, Anal C*nt, Pansy Division, Nine Inch Males, Gay For Johnny Depp, RainyDayFuckParade, Fuckeaters, Holy Fuck, Fuck -all of them surely charming.
Of course, if the sleeves are anything to go by, each and every one of them is a boy band. Well, "boy band"... in a manner of speaking of course (LOL!). It's true though, there's not a single girlie in sight, it's all socks in crotches and allergies to razor blades, snarls rather than smiles -I can't even make out a single Bewitched twin! (God love 'em, what are they up to these days, gee I wonder...)- it's all a bunch of hairy knuckles on parade. That's right, a bunch of denimed gonads, a proper collection of dead hard dullards, and a right shower of berks, all of them without exception scowling, frowning, mugging, and crossing their arms well tight so that their tiny weenie biceps look big, aaahhh. Just like bimbos. Exactly like bimbos. Cute eh? Never let it be said there is nothing to learn from bad soaps and unimaginative photoshoots, these give pointers as to how fellas will behave later. Anyhoo, the favoured look on the punkers' faces is one of intense irritation and imminent confrontation, like their little brother's borrowed their PlayStation without asking and wait till he comes back from school the little bollix there's gonna be hell to pay hell to pay and tears before bedtime oh yes you mark my words. I also note that some gentlemen affect to rest a hand on their groin, or else slip it under their belt altogether as one does in company. The fat ones -usually to be found at the back of group portraits- have a tendency to suck in their cheeks and sometimes brandish an unplugged guitar or -better still- a drum stick menacingly. They meaaaan it, man. This seems to be the default pose for rock'n rollers, not least when your man in the middle pretends to be about to headbutt the poor sod operating the camera: there's some serious outstaring going on.
live bootlegs; videoed TV appearances; "Dr. Who"; punk era; vinyl only; singles; eight-track cassettes; "shoegazing" (?); t-shirts and memorabilia; autographs; limited editions of one sort of another; "baggy"(??); programs; backstage passes; Japanese releases of English / American albums complete with funny squiggling; "grindcore" and "mash-ups"(???); personal fanclub relics; musicals; "leaked" master-tapes from the studios; "jungle", "speedcore", "two-tone", "ragga" (surely a spelling mistake), "Bollywood"; white labels (What can this mean? I go investigate and the labels turn out to be white -Du'h! Not the most informative is it!); Elvis; tour posters and key-rings; heavy metal (cue excuse for cranking up to eleven some godawful racket from men in make-up and poodle haircut. Oh mine ears. Must be their skintight kecks that cause them to squeal so high!); box-sets; "industrial"; homemade; discontinued and deleted; second-hand bargains (that frankly look like they belong to a carboot sale); country and western; anything but classical; TV tie-ins (Wanna hear our homemade take on "Do They Know It's Christmas Time" again? Or what about an eighties fun-filled Ireland soccer team anthem? Well look no further. I for one will.); movie soundtracks; VHS rental tapes from bankrupt video-shops; eighties and "post-punk" -Bingo! We're in business!
I approach the stand in question with no small amount of trepidation. Will they have anything by ColdHeat? Will they? ...Will they at least have heard of them? Plastic pockets wallpaper the stand, offering to our attention a lovingly selected array of lurid sleeves, all of them competing for the most attention grabbing title:
"City Baby Attacked By Rats!", "Punk's Not Dead!", "Sid Vicious Was Innocent!", "The Ungovernable Force", "The Unacceptable Face Of Freedom", "Destroy She Said", "Lesson One: Misanthropy", "Plein Les Couilles!" (?? bovine genitals pictured here), "Pissed And Proud!", "Banned From The Pubs!", "Too Drunk To Fuck", "Bring On The Nubiles", "It Takes A Nation To Hold Us Back!", "Apocalypse 91 The Empire Strikes Black!", "Welcome To The Terrordome", "I'm So Bored With The USA", "Songs About F*cking", "If You Don't Want To Fuck Me Then Fuck Off", "Nazi Punks Fuck Off", "Fuck Like An Animal", "Fuck Da Police", "Fuck The Mods!", my personal favourite: "The F*ckin' C*nts Treat Us Like Pr*cks" (sic), "Touch Me I'm Sick", "Plastic Surgery Disasters", "I Wanna Marry A Tubeway Disaster", "Holiday In Cambodia", "Smash It Up!", "Kill The Poor!", "Kill Your Friends!", "Kill Your Television!", "The Fisherman's Blues", "Cop Killer", "Bloodsports For All!", "Friendly As A Hand Grenade", "Machine Gun Etiquette", "Shot From Both Sides", "Pretty Hate Machine", "Atrocity Exhibition", "Tube Stations Of The Cross", "Pictures Of Starving Children Sell Records", "Let's Lynch The Landlord!", "I Don't Want To Know If You Are Lonely", "The Queen Is Dead", "Friendly Fascism" (mercifully subtitled "This Is Not A Fascist Record"), "This Is Not A Love Song", "Go Wild In The Country!", "The Sky's Gone Out!", "Final Solution", "Baby's Turned Blue!", and finally "If I Die I Die".
Phew, that's us told.
Check out the band-names then, they're equally delightful: the Screaming Blue Messiahs, the Stranglers, Screaming Jesus, Play Dead, Dead Can Dance, Dead Kennedys, the Dead Boys, the Death Cult, Death (do I detect a common thread here?), Discharge, Crass, Conflict, Cannibal Corpse, the Circle Jerks, the Crucifucks, Crispy Ambulance, Theatre Of Hate, Handsome Dick And The Dictators, And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of The Dead, Sick Of It All, Poison The Well, Public Enemy, Niggas With Attitude, Nuclear Assault, Napalm Death, Extreme Noise Terror, Killdozer, Kill Yourself, the Killers, the Kills, Bomb Disneyland, Bomb Everything, the Brian Jonestown Massacre, a Million Dead Cops, Cop Shoot Cop, Bodycount, Scratch Acid, Unsane, Damaged, Pulp (as in "beaten to a"?), Pissed Jeans, Bathtub Shitter, the Damned, the London SS, the Violent Femmes, the Homosexuals, the Epileptics, Treponem Pal, Daisy Chainsaw, Bark Psychosis, Suicide, Suicidal Tendencies, Time To Die, the It Will Hurt But You Will Like It, Blood Everywhere, Virgin Mega Whore, Gaye (sic) Bikers On Acid, Sheep On Drugs, Foreheads In A Fishtank, Machine Gun Fellatio, the Butthole Surfers, Anal C*nt, Pansy Division, Nine Inch Males, Gay For Johnny Depp, RainyDayFuckParade, Fuckeaters, Holy Fuck, Fuck -all of them surely charming.
Of course, if the sleeves are anything to go by, each and every one of them is a boy band. Well, "boy band"... in a manner of speaking of course (LOL!). It's true though, there's not a single girlie in sight, it's all socks in crotches and allergies to razor blades, snarls rather than smiles -I can't even make out a single Bewitched twin! (God love 'em, what are they up to these days, gee I wonder...)- it's all a bunch of hairy knuckles on parade. That's right, a bunch of denimed gonads, a proper collection of dead hard dullards, and a right shower of berks, all of them without exception scowling, frowning, mugging, and crossing their arms well tight so that their tiny weenie biceps look big, aaahhh. Just like bimbos. Exactly like bimbos. Cute eh? Never let it be said there is nothing to learn from bad soaps and unimaginative photoshoots, these give pointers as to how fellas will behave later. Anyhoo, the favoured look on the punkers' faces is one of intense irritation and imminent confrontation, like their little brother's borrowed their PlayStation without asking and wait till he comes back from school the little bollix there's gonna be hell to pay hell to pay and tears before bedtime oh yes you mark my words. I also note that some gentlemen affect to rest a hand on their groin, or else slip it under their belt altogether as one does in company. The fat ones -usually to be found at the back of group portraits- have a tendency to suck in their cheeks and sometimes brandish an unplugged guitar or -better still- a drum stick menacingly. They meaaaan it, man. This seems to be the default pose for rock'n rollers, not least when your man in the middle pretends to be about to headbutt the poor sod operating the camera: there's some serious outstaring going on.
Ah
isn't it true though, guys on record sleeves never look pleased to be here.
Surely this is nonsense, they didn't think it through did they? I mean, this
has to be sending the totally wrong signal: Don't they dig their own record? Do
they hate their own band-mates? Do they want to scare away their customers? So
what's the face about then! All this frowning and general cussing... this can't
be very appealing to the punter, can it? Me if I see this, I'm like: Cheer up,
will yous! Don't yous know first impressions matter?? Oh, and tuck your shirts
in, while yous're at it. Seriouslythough, just check their custom raggedy
jeans... Waste of perfectly good trousers, that and don't get me started on the
bad hair dyes... My oh my oh my. Why can't they go and make notes about Macca's
barnet? I rest me case.
Still
I have to chuckle at one title: "If you don't want to fuck me you can fuck
off" -That's fighting talk, that, where myself and Georgie come from!
Especially Georgie.
I check the stall's brand tag: he / it's called "DeathFun". "We're from Hamburg and we're rocking!" promises he or they. I know someone who'd so dig it... Need to go investigate. I step up to the stand and the-man-himself appears. Forty-something, over six feet, he still appears to be in full possession of all his teeth but more strikingly, Deatho sports a rather fetching hairdo: blondie highlights, short on the sides, spikes on top and mullet type fringe. That's got to be a statement, that. Of what exactly, I'm not too sure but a statement alright. Defiance, I'd say; defiance or even "fun" in fact. Fun against the aul' Reaper, hurrah! Leather trousers, earrings galore, and a cheerful "Sonic Youth Expressway To Y'r Skull" t-shirt complete the picture. No doubt about it, the dude's For Real. I may just be in luck.
"Hello there, how 'you keeping?"
-"Hel-lo to you, and good afternoon too. May I be of assiiistance?"
-"Hope so... Right er, well it's a bit, I was wondering if you -Actually I'm kinda looking for one band in particular, you know? That band er, they had their day for a wee while in the eighties and then they... Well, no longer. Anyway, they're a Dublin band? from the eighties? and I was wondering if you'd have heard of them..."
-"A-ha a Dubliiin band, from ze eighties, well let me see... I am thinking, I am thinking yes: You must presently be referring to ze Virgin Pruuunes ah yes: zey were sizeably big back then. Well, as big as zeir relatively limited following-market-share would allow of course!"
-"Er no, it's not the Prunes."
-"It's not ze Pruuunes?? Ach zen, let's consider, let's consider yes... could it be ze Undertones zen, or maybe ze Stiff Little Fingers -alzough technically zeese do not from ze Irish Republic itself originate, but from ze still legally occupied by Great Britain Norzern territory yes!"
-"No no, it's not them either, I know their"
A raised hand stops me midflow, he looks aggrieved.
-"God in ze sky! Don't tell me you are matter-of-factly to U2 referring?! You wouldn't be talking about U2 yes? No?"
-"No no, good heavens not -I know U2, thank you! No no it's not them, I am thinking of another crowd altogether, a totally different kettle of fish: they were kinda more edgy, more theatrical -and easily better if I may say"
-"Efryone is easily better zan U2!" cuts he me off peremptorily -and probably to his great peril in this part of the world, I should think.
-"Ha! Hmm well, be it as it may... easily better in their days that is, and they were called... ColdHeat. ColdHeat. ... Would you have heard of them by any chance? ColdHeat, 's that ring a bell? Maybe would you have anything by them by any chance? I'm just curious, that's all..."
-"ColdHeat you say? Do you presently mean "ze high priests of Dub' doom"? JohnnyRay Maddixx "ze seer of Saint-James sadness" and "Prophet of Parnell Street"? A-ha, of course I know zem -possibly must I have some of their releases in my cold-wave section, zey were seriously decadent in zeir timeperiod I am remembering"
-"Wow, really?? So you know them?? Did you like them?"
Your man starts foraging through his stock.
-"I am not suuure really, don't remember zem much as a matter of audio remembrance: After all, zat is a quantifiable amount of time now I am thinking... I am thinking zey alright were yes, most certainly. Zey were alright. Soootably competent in zeir own style, given ze accepted timely genre parameters."
He spots my disappointment. Reacts quickly.
"God in ze sky! My recent comment does not mean zat zey bad were! Technically have I not zat said, young lady. It's just zat, self-understandably apply we all our own criteria to our personal taste preferences yes? Hey, at ze start of the night you are talking to a Husker Du man therefore."
He goes back to rummaging through his meticulously tagged stuff. I haven't got the foggiest who this Husker Du is. Is it a genre? a label? a Nordic death metaller? Obviously his remark carries some kind of significance, which escapes me entirely. Clearly some kind of semantic opposition a la Southsider versus Northsider I'd say, or romantic Carrie versus slag Samantha.
"Ah no, unfortunately looks it like you not in ze luuuck are my young lady, I sincerely apologise, alzough I prettily sure am -and when I sure am, zat means it so was- zat I a couple of their long players had -but it appears zat zey gone are... (ach! schloch! bestrafe mich!) Most likely sold, I would logically henceforth conclude. I sincerely apologise."
-"Ah what a shame then, that's just too bad, that would have been so.... -Huh, actually, I just wonder: Could be they're maybe in a different section?"
-"In a different section?? Certainly not!! No probable chance of zat my young friend! Ze ColdHeat albums belong to ze Cold-Wave section and nowhere else! Not in ze Noufeau-Romantic section, not in ze New-Wafe Pop section -and certainly not in ze Post-Punk section, zis wouldn't be correct!"
-"Sorry sorry my bad, didn't mean to -er...- doubt your memory or challenge your classification! I'm sure you're right, I'm sure that's where they would have been, I guess if we can't find them there, well... Well it must mean that they've been sold."
-"Zat would be ze logical conclusion, yes. Now if you want miss, I can out-check, I have everything on-logged in my inventory, all transactions, all stock, won't take a minute"
-"No no that's grand, don't you put yourself out on my behalf, 'was only wondering that's all"
But Deatho silences me with one bejewelled hand and types with the other on his whatchallit.
-"A-ha and zere they are... Indeed have zey been transacted, at 10 hours 45 and 10 hours 46 morning time, presuuumably to ze identical customer."
-"Ah that's just grand then, am glad to hear. So people still go for them then, that's brilliant news that... Say, if I may ask, you seem to know an awful lot about ColdHeat don't you...?"
-"Ah well, not really no, not about zem precisely must I be frank, it's just zat... You understand, what with zem originating from the eighties, zerefore..."
Your man gets all embarrassed and breaks into a guilty smile.
-"I see. The eighties seem to mean an awful lot to you don't they..."
-"Zey were magic! Total fancy, super creative! Ach, I have my nose full with these dumb heads who always claim zat ze eighties crap were! Kvetch, yes? It's so easy zat dickhead to ridicule if you up-bring ze likes of Kajagoogoo, Duran Duran, A Flock Of Seagulls, David Hasselhof, Culture Club, Trio, Bon Jovi, Toto, ze Thompson Twins etc. Who cares about zese clowns let me ask you!! No no no no! Zis is what I personally say: In life you have to up-look, not down-look! Ze eighties saw the reign of Ultrafox! Depeche Mote! Ze Cocteau Twins! Ze Young Gods! Joy Divishon! Husker Du! Sonic Youth! Big Black! Dinosaur Jr! Bauhaus! Killing Joke! Ze Pirthday Party! Siouxsie! Ze Cure! And so forth and so further -Chust what about Talk Talk eh? what about ze Smiths, Japaaan, New Orter, Einsturzende Neubauten, Kas Produkt, Deutsche Amerikanische Freundshaft, Nina Hagen, ze Ex, Negazione, Oberkampf, Ausweis and fousants more!"
Your man gets so agitated, I almost sympathise with his anguish. I refrain from telling him herself grew up listening to Culture Club and Duran Duran; instead I offer a mere
-"I was born in the eighties..."
-"How vonderful! Fair pay to you! Except it means you up-grown in ze nineties will have -terrible dickead that, terrible dickead... yes I'm thinking... Simply awful. By zen had all ze inventivity gone, ze innovations, ze clothes, ze haircuts... all gone nefer to return!"
He goes all quiet for a while. But not for long.
"So you were lookiiing for some ColdHeat zen? How heart-warming... It's nice zat people zeir childhood remember when zey up-grow. I'll tell you what: If you want -I'm thinking now- if you want, can I my contacts call? we'll search for zeir albums? I'm sure I could some locate -zen I could zem post-send to you yes?"
-"Good man yourself! But no, no need, really there is no need to go to such lengths"
-"Oh but not at all, not at all my young lady, zis can most probably be arranged yes"
-"No no you see, I've got them all at home that is -Well, my Da has them. I just wanted to know, like -I was curious- ...if anyone still cared?"
-"Oh, oh but I care -I care and lots people do! Zere is a huuuge care-bidding-market for ze eighties in fact, just like wiz ze sefenties before, and zen ze sixties. Ach pig dog, I guess in ten years' time will people about zese awful nineties nostalgic be, and so on -It's a cycle, you see? A cyclical occurrence. Zat's how it works: What comes around goes back around, through ze nostalgia-caring-factor."
-"Right you are... nostalgia eh..."
-"Zat's right, zat is correct: Ze human-emotion-nostalgia-determinating-factor is a powerfully determining one yes. Effects: what on-brought by causes is. Now, since you in ColdHeat interested are -yes?- I'll tell you something though, I'll tell you what I heard: about ze JohnnyRay"
-"Oh yeah?? What have you heard then?"
-"I am remembering now, zere was zis article, some time ago in zis fanziiine... What did it say again? ... Ah yes. It said ze JohnnyRay in a cats-full-house lives."
-"He what?? Lives in a cat's house? in a house full of cats? Er, sorry but you must be thinking of Brigitte Bardot"
-"Prishitte Partot? No no no I am most assuredly not: Ze Prishitte Partot is not Irish, and she was not in a cold-wave band! Zat I know!! No, Prishitte Partot was a French actress, a fifties-to-seventies-time-era-based comeedian, and a sexy sexy fleshsymbol. Now is retired."
-"OK OK, that's Brigitte Bardot alright -No, didn't mean to, we are talking about JohnnyRay here, all apologies for the misunderstanding! Right then, JohnnyRay it is. The man himself. ... So what 'you heard about him? Seriously, I am all ears!"
-"What else? Hmm well, yes zen... ah let me see... can't remember too much now, zis article... it talked about his life - ze JohnnyRay's life yes?-, I think he had a wife, and she left him. She ran away."
...
"Zey had a child too. It was a girl. ...Is all I remember can."
-"Is it??"
My heart's beating like mad. Just when we was getting there, your man can no longer remember!
-"I think.
Oh no zey said zat she mad is."
-"Who? The daughter??"
-"No no, ze wife. Ze daughter stayed with JohnnyRay and is a doctor now."
-"A doctor??"
-"Somesing like zat. Not a doctor-doctor yes? but one of zese differentiating variants, a psychoanalyst / psychologist of some description I don't know. Reflexology, aromatherapy, chirotherapy -somesuch speciality yes? I imagine talking cure, Gestalt, acupuncture, ze usual mixture of every alternatif fad not by a medical council officially recognised let alone approved."
Gulp. Sounds like we have a personal mix-up here.
-"But what about the mother? What were they saying, that she was mad?"
-"Somesing like zat, yes I'm thinking... I may be wrong zough. I may be wrong. In fact... retroactively thinking yes? maybe zey didn't say mad as in "mad", but a bit deranged you know? A bit loopy ha ha! Nina Hagen loopy! Sinead O'Connor loopy! Well, self-understandingly, to out-walk on ze JohnnyRay and zeir young kid as she did... zat is certainly quite peculiar, substantially peculiar yes. In all probability must have happened somesing... Somesing we not privy to are."
-"Something must have happened..."
-"Yes yes somesing... Ah but bear in mind I also heard -I hear all sorts!- I heard der JohnnyRay to religion turned has, he has become a Witness for Jehovah or somesing, goes door to door, he spreads ze word. Oh and zat he also for ze Ministry of Taxation works, so go number! It's all hearsay right? All Poppy cocks most likely! Now if you excuse me will, I'm afraid I have to..."
And off he goes, back to his business which, to be fair, doesn't actually consist of him waffling on to someone not really interested in buying any of his stock. To be honest, "Deatho"'s mission in life probably lies elsewhere altogether. It's probably more along the lines of selling definitive two-minute apocalyptic rantings to balding people dressed in black. ...And why the hell not. Ze good old human-emotion-nostalgia-determinating-factor eh.
Left to my own devices, I hang around a bit longer, trying to find something to buy as a gesture of thanks. I finally come across a 3-D sleeved copy of the Stranglers' "The Raven" -Bingo! Should do for the alleged feline loving slash Jehovah's witness slash public servant slash accountant. This gets the big thumbs-up from my new friend: "Ah ze Stranklers ...Pest French pand France nefer had ha ha!"
No comments:
Post a Comment